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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 
Gift  of 


MRS.  THEODORE  LILIENTHAL 


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MATTHEW  ARNOLD »S  POElflS 


The  edition  pulalished  by  Ticknor 
and  Fields,  and  the  copy  from 
the  lilDrary  of  the  publisher, 
James  T.  Fields.    Together  with 
autograph  letter  which  Fields 
placed  in  this  volume,  and  which 
is  addressed  to  Ticknor  and  Fields, 
in  which  Arnold  thanks  the  pub- 
lishers for  payment  made  in  con- 
nection with  this  very  issue. 

Bound  in  half  blue  levant,  with 
original  cloth  covers  bound  in  at 
end  of  the  volume, 

James  T.  Fields  was  himself  a  poet, 
and  this  volumes  associates  two  of 
the  distinguished  English  and  Amer- 
ican men  of  letters  of  their  day. 


f^' 


^u^H^^ 


bi;l 


POEMS 


BY 


MATTHEW     ARNOLD 


A   NEW  AND    COMPLETE   EDITION, 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS 

M  DCCC  LVI. 


CAMBRIDGE  :  THCRSTOS    AXD    TOBRr,    PKIXTIiRS. 


CONTENTS 


PREFACE 

SONNET  .  .  ^ 

soHRAB  AND  RusTUM.    An  Episode 

HYCERINUS 

CADMUS  AND   UARMONIA 

PHILOMELA 

THE   STRAYED   REVELLER 

thekla's  ANSWER.     (From  Schiller) 

TRISTRAM  AND   ISEULT  '  . 

I.  Tristram 
II.  Iseult  of  Ireland 
III.  Iseult  of  Brittany 

THE  CHURCH  OP  BROU   . 

I.  The  Castle 
II.  The  Church 
III.  The  Tomb 


PAGE 

9 
30 
31 
.  63 
69 
.  71 
73 
.  80 
89 
.  89 
104 
.  113 
121 
.  121 
127 
.  130 


V 


6                                                       CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  NECKAN        .                 .                .                 *                 . 

132 

THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN          .... 

.  135 

SWITZERLAND      ..... 

141 

I.  To  My  Friends    .... 

.  141 

11.  The  Lake     .... 

145 

III.  A  Dream             .... 

.  146 

IV.  Parting         .... 

.     •    148 

V.  To  Marguerite     .... 

.  152 

VI.  Absence        .... 

154 

RICHMOND   HILL           ..... 

.  155 

A  MODERN   SAPPHO             .... 

156 

REQUIESCAT                     ... 

.  159 

THE   SCHOLAR   GIPSY         .                 .                 .                 . 

161 

SONNETS          ...... 

.  172 

I.  To  a  Friend            .             . 

172 

II.  Shakspeare         .             . 

.  173 

III.  Written  in  Emerson's  Essays 

174 

IV.  To  George  Cruikshank,  Esq.  . 

.  175 

V.  To  a  Republican  Friend.     1848     . 

176 

VI.  Continued          .            .             .            . 

.  177 

VII.  Religious  Isolation.     To  the  Same 

178 

VIII.  The  World's  Triumphs 

.  179 

STANZAS  IN  MEMORY  OF   THE   LATE   EDWARD   QUILLINAN, 

ESQ.     180 

MORALITY              ..... 

182 

SELF-DEPENDENCE 

.  184 

CONSOLATION       .                  .                 .                 .                 . 

186 

THE  FUTURE                  ..... 

.  190 

CONTENTS. 


BALDER  DEAD.     An  Episode     . 
I.  Sending 

II.  Journey  to  the  Dead 
III.  Funeral 

THE  SICK   KING   IN   BOKHARA 
THE   HARP-PLAYER   OX   ETNA 

I.  The  Last  Glen 

II.  Typho     . 

III.  Marsjas 

IV.  Apollo      . 

FRAGMENT   OF  AN   '*  AN-TIGONE  " 

MEMORIAL   VERSES       . 

REVOLUTIONS 

THE  WORLD   AND   THE   QUIETIST 

FADED   LEAVES 

I.  The  River 
II.  Too  Late 

III.  Separation 

IV.  On  the  Rhine 
V.  Longing 

SELF-DECEPTION 

EXCUSE 

INDIFFERENCE     . 

RESIGNATION 

DESPONDENCY 

THE   PHILOSOPHER  AND   THE  STARS 

DESIRE 


8  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

TO   A    GIPSY  CHILD  BY    THE  SEA-SHORE  .                 •                 •    30G 

OBERMANN             .                 .                 •                 •  •                 *              ^^" 

THE  BURIED   LIFE       .                 .                 .  •                 •                 *    ^^^ 

THE  YOUTH   OF  NATURE                   .                 •  •                 .               o-.-. 

THE  YOUTH   OF  MAN                    .                 .  .                 •                 •    3-8 

A   SUMMER   NIGHT               .                 •                 •  •                 •               ^^^ 


PREFACE 


In  two  small  volumes  of  Poems,  published  anonymously, 
one  in  1849,  the  other  in  ,1852,  many  of  the  Poems  which 
compose  the  present  volume  have  already  appeared.  The 
rest  are  now  published  for  the  first  time. 

I  have,  in  the  present  collection,  omitted  the  Poem  from 
which  the  volume  published  in  1852  took  its  title.  I  have 
done  so,  not  because  the  subject  of  it  was  a  Sicilian  Greek 
born  between  two  and  three  thousand  years  ago,  although 
many  persons  would  think  this  a  sufficient  reason.  Neither 
have  I  done  so  because  I  had,  in  my  own  opinion,  failed  in 
the  delineation  w^hich  I  intended  to  effect.  I  intended  to 
delineate  the  feelings  of  one  of  the  last  of  the  Greek  religious 
philosophers,  one  of  the  family  of  Orpheus  and  Musasus, 
having  survived  his  fellows,  living  on  into  a  time  when  the 
habits  of  Greek  thought  and  feeling  had  begun  fest  to  change, 
character  to  dwindle,  the  influence  of  the  Sophists  to  prevail. 
Into  the  feelings  of  a  man  so  situated  there  entered  much  that 
we  are  accustomed  to  consider  as  exclusively  modern  ;  how 
much,  the  fragments  of  Empedocles  himself  which  remain  to 
us  are  sufficient  at  least  to  indicate.  What  those  who  are 
familiar  only  with  the  great  monuments  of  early  Greek 
genius  suppose  to  be  its  exclusive  characteristics,  have  dis- 
appeared ;  the  calm,  the  cheerfulness,  the  disinterested  ob- 
1 


10  PREFACE. 

jectivity  have  disappeared  :  the  dialogue  of  the  mind  with 
itself  has  commenced ;  modern  problems  have  presented 
themselves ;  we  hear  already  the  doubts,  we  witness  the  dis- 
couragement, of  Hamlet  and  of  Faust. 

The  representation  of  such  a  man's  feelings  must  be  in- 
teresting, if  consistently  drawn.  We  all  naturally  take 
pleasure,  says  Aristotle,  in  any  imitation  or  representation 
whatever :  this  is  the  basis  of  our  love  of  Poetry ;  and  we 
take  pleasure  in  them,  he  adds,  because  all  knowledge  is 
naturally  agreeable  to  us;  not  to  the  philosopher  only, 
but  to  mankind  at  large.  Every  representation  therefore 
which  is  consistently  drawn  may  be  supposed  to  be  inter- 
esting, inasmuch  as  it  gratifies  this  natural  interest  in 
knowledge  of  all  kinds.  What  is  not  interesting,  is  that 
which  does  not  add  to  our  knowledge  of  any  kind ;  that 
which  is  vaguely  conceived  and  loosely  drawn ;  a  represen- 
tation which  is  general,  indeterminate,  and  faint,  instead 
of  being  particular,  precise,  and  firm. 

Any  accurate  representation  may  therefore  be  expected 
to  be  interesting ;  but,  if  the  representation  be  a  poetical 
one,  more  than  this  is  demanded.  It  is  demanded,  not 
only  that  it  shall  interest,  but  also  that  it  shall  inspirit 
and  rejoice  the  reader :  that  it  shall  convey  a  charm,  and 
infuse  delight.  For  the  Muses,  as  Hesiod  says,  were  born 
that  they  might  be  "  a  forgetfulness  of  evils,  and  a  truce 
from  cares :  ' '  and  it  is  not  enough  that  the  Poet  should 
add  to  the  knowledge  of  men,  it  is  required  of  him  also 
that  he  should  add  to  their  happiness.  "  All  Art,"  says 
Schiller,  "  is  dedicated  to  Joy,  and  there  is  no  higher  and 
no  more  serious  problem,  than  how  to  make  men  happy. 
The  right  Art  is  that  alone,  which  creates  the  highest  en- 
joyment." 


PREFACE.  11 

A  poetical  work,  therefore,  is  not  jet  justified  when  it 
has  been  shown  to  be  an  accurate,  and  therefore  interesting 
representation  ;  it  has  to  be  shown  also  that  it  is  a  repre- 
sentation from  which  men  can  derive  enjoyment.  In  pre- 
sence of  the  most  tragic  circumstances,  represented  in  a 
work  of  Art,  the  feeling  of  enjoyment,  as  is  well  known, 
may  still  subsist :  the  representation  of  the  most  utter  calami- 
ty, of  the  liveliest  anguish,  is  not  sufficient  to  destroy  it: 
the  more  tragic  the  situation,  the  deeper  becomes  the  en- 
joyment ;  and  the  situation  is  more  tragic  in  proportion  as 
it  becomes  more  terrible. 

What  then  are  the  situations,  from  the  representation 
of  which,  though  accurate,  no  jwetical  enjoyment  can  be 
derived?  They  are  those  in  which  the  suffering  finds  no 
vent  in  action ;  in  which  a  continuous  state  of  mental  dis-r 
tress  is  prolonged,  unrelieved  by  incident,  hope,  or  resistance ; 
in  which  there  is  everything  to  be  endured,  nothing  to  be 
done.  In  such  situations  tliere  is  inevitably  something 
morbid,  in  the  description  of  them  something  monotonous. 
When  they  occur  in  actual  life,  they  are  painful,  not  tragic; 
the  representation  of  them  in  poetry  is  painful  also. 

To  this  class  of  situations,  poetically  faulty  as  it  appears 
to  me,  that  of  Empedocles,  as  I  have  endeavored  to  repre- 
sent him,  belongs ;  and  I  have  therefore  excluded  the  Poem 
from  the  present  collection. 

And  why,  it  may  be  asked,  have  I  entered  into  this  ex- 
planation respecting  a  matter  so  unimportant  as  the  admis- 
sion or  exclusion  of  the  Poem  in  question?  I  have  done 
so,  because  I  was  anxious  to  avow  that  the  sole  reason  for 
its  exclusion  was  that  which  has  been  stated  above  ;  and 
that  it  has  not  been  excluded  in  deference  to  the  opinion 
which  many  critics  of  the  present  day  appear  to  entertain 


12  PREFACE. 

againsfc  subjects  chosen  from  distant  times  and  countries  : 
against  the  choice,  in  short,  of  any  subjects  but  modern 
ones. 

"  The  Poet,"  it  is  said,  and  by  an  apparently  intelligent 
critic,  "the  Poet  who  would  really  fix  the  public  attention 
must  leave  the  exhausted  past,  and  draw  his  subjects  from 
matters  of  present  import,  and  therefore  both  of  interest 
and  novelty." 

Now  this  view  I  believe  to  be  completely  false.  It  -is 
worth  examining,  inasmuch  as  it  is  a  fair  sample  of  a  class 
of  critical  dicta  everywhere  current  at  the  present- day, 
having  a  philosophical  form  and  air,  but  no  real  basis  in 
fact ;  and  which  are  calculated  to  vitiate  the  judgment 
of  readers  of  poetry,  while  they  exert,  so  far  as  they  are 
adopted,  a  misleading  influence  on  the  practice  of  those 
who  write  it. 

What  are  the  eternal  objects  of  Poetry,  among  all  nations, 
and  at  all  times  ?  They  are  actions ;  human  actions ;  pos- 
sessing an  inherent  interest  in  themselves,  and  which  are 
to  be  communicated  in  an  interesting  manner  by  the  art 
of  the  Poet.  Vainly  will  the  latter  imagine  that  he  has 
everything  in  his  own  power  ;  that  he  can  make  an  intrin- 
sically inferior  action  equally  delightful  w^ith  a  more  excellent 
one  by  his  treatment  of  it :  he  may  indeed  compel  us  to 
admire  his  skill,  but  his  work  will  possess,  within  itself, 
an  incurable  defect. 

The  Poet,  then,  has  in  the  first  place  to  select  an  excellent 
action;  and  what  actions  are  the  most  excellent?  Those, 
certainly,  which  most  powerfully  appeal  to  the  great  primary 
human  affections  :  to  those  elementary  feelings  which  sub- 
sist permanently  in  the  race,  and  which  are  independent 
of  time.     These  feelings  are  permanent  and  the  same;  that 


PREFACE.  13 

which  interests  them  is  permanent  and  the  same  also. 
The  modernness  or  antiquity  of  an  action,  therefore,  has 
nothing  to  do  with  its  fitness  for  poetical  representation ; 
this  depends  upon  its  inherent  qualities.  To  the  elementary 
part  of  our  nature,  to  our  passions,  that  which  is  great 
and  passionate  is  eternally  interesting ;  and  interesting 
solely  in  proportion  to  its  greatness  and  to  its  passion.  A 
great  human  action  of  a  thousand  years  ago  is  more  in- 
teresting to  it  than  a  smaller  human  action  of  to-day, 
even  though  upon  the  representation  of  this  last  the  most 
consummate  skill  may  have  been  expended,  and  though  it 
has  the  advantage  of  appealing  by  its  modern  language, 
familiar  manners,  and  contemporary  allusions,  to  all  our 
transient  feelings  and  interests.  These,  however,  have  no 
right  to  demand  of  a  poetical  work  that  it  shall  satisfy 
them;  their  claims  are  .to  be  directed  elsewhere.  Poetical 
works  belong  to  the  domain  of  our  permanent  passions  : 
let  them  interest  these,  and  the  voice  of  all  subordinate 
claims  upon  them  is  at  once  silenced. 

Achilles,  Prometheus,  Clytemnestra,  Dido  —  what  modern 
poem  presents  personages  as  interesting,  even  to  us  moderns, 
as  these  personages  of  an  "exhausted  past?"  We  have 
the  domestic  epic  dealing  with 'the  details  of  modern  life 
which  pass  daily  under  our  eyes  ;  we  have  poems  repre- 
senting modern  personages  in  contact  with  the  problems 
of  modern  life,  moral,  intellectual,  and  social ;  these  works 
have  been  produced  by  poets  the  most  distinguished  of  their 
nation  and  time ;  yet  I  fearlessly  assert  that  Hermann  and 
Dorothea,  Childe  Harold,  Jocelyn,  The  Excursion,  leave 
the  reader  cold  in  comparison  with  the  effect  produced 
upon  him  by  the  latter  books  of  the  Iliad,  by  the  Orestea, 
or   by  the  episode  of  Dido.     And  why  is  this?    Simply 


14  PREFACE. 

because  in  the  three  latter  cases  the  action  is  greater, 
the  personages  nobler,  the  situations  more  intense ;  and  this 
is  the  true  basis  of  the  interest  in  a  poetical  work,  and  this 
alone. 

It  may  be  urged,  however,  that  past  actions  may  be  in- 
teresting in  themselves,  but  that  they  are  not  to  be  adopted 
by  the  modern  Poet,  because  it  is  impossible  for  him  to 
have  them  clearly  present  to  his  own  mind,  and  he  cannot 
therefore  feel  them  deeply,  nor  represent  them  forcibly. 
But  this  is  not  necessarily  the  case.  The  externals  ,of  a 
past  action,  indeed,  he  cannot  know  with  the  precision  of 
a  contemporary  ;  but  his  business  is  with  its  essentials.  The 
outward  man  of  OEdipus  or  of  Macbeth,  the  houses  in  which 
they  lived,  the  ceremonies  of  their  courts,  he  cannot  accu- 
rately figure  to  himself;  but  neither  do  they  essentially 
concern  him.  His  business  is  with  their  inward  man  ;  with 
their  feelings  and  behavior  in  certain  tragic  situations, 
which  engage  their  passions  as  men :  these  have  in  them 
nothing  local  and  casual ;  they  are  as  accessible  to  the 
modern  Poet  as  to  a  contemporary. 

The  date  of  an  action,  then,  signifies  nothing  :  the  action 
itself,  its  selection  and  construction,  this  is  what  is  all-im- 
portant. This  the  Greeks  understood  far  more  clearly  than 
we  do  The  radical  difference  between  their  poetical  theory 
and  ours  consists,  as  it  appears  to  me,  in  this  :  that,  with 
them,  the  poetical  character  of  the  action  in  itself,  and 
the  conduct  of  it,  was  the  first  consideration ;  with  us,  at- 
tention is  fixed  mainly  on  the  value  of  the  separate  thoughts 
and  images  which  occur  in  the  treatment  of  an  action. 
They  regarded  the  whole;  we  regard  the  parts.  With 
them,  the  action  predominated  over  the  expression  of  it; 
with  us,  the  expression  predominates  over  the  action.     Not 


PREFACE.  15 

that  the  J  failed  in  expression,  or  were  inattentive  to  it ;  on 
the  contrary,  they  are  the  highest  models  of  expression,  the 
unapproached  masters  of  the  grand  style  :  but  their  expres- 
sion is  so  excellent  because  it  is  so  admirably  kept  in  its 
right  degree  of  prominence  ;  because  it  is  so  simple  and  so 
well  subordinated ;  because  it  draws  its  force  directly  from 
the  pregnancy  of  the  matter  which  it  conveys.  For  what 
reason  was  the  Greek  tragic  poet  confined  to  so  limited  a 
range  of  subjects  ?  Because  there  are  so  few  actions  which 
unite  in  themselves,  in  the  highest  degree,  the  conditions 
of  excellence :  and  it  was  not  thought  that  on  any  but  an 
excellent  subject  could  an  excellent  Poem  be  constructed. 
A  few  actions,  therefore,  eminently  adapted  for  tragedy, 
maintained  almost  exclusive  possession  of  the  Greek  tragic 
stage ;  their  significance  appeared  inexhaustible ;  they  were 
as  permanent  problems,  perpetually  ofiered  to  the  genius 
of  every  fresh  poet.  This  too  is  the  reason  of  what  appears 
to  us  moderns  a  certain  baldness  of  expression  in  Greek 
tragedy  ;  of  the  triviality  with  which  we  often  reproach  the 
remarks  of  the  chorus,  where  it  takes  part  in  the  dialogue  : 
that  the  action  itself,  the  situation  of  Orestes,  or  Merope,  or 
Alcmaeon,  was  to  stand  the  central  point  of  interest,  un- 
forgotten,  absorbing,  principal ;  that  no  accessories  were  for 
a  moment  to  distract  the  spectator's  attention  from  this  ;  that 
the  tone  of  the  parts  was  to  be  perpetually  kept  down,  in 
order  not  to  impair  the  grandiose  effect  of  the  whole.  The 
terrible  old  mythic  story  on  which  the  drama  was  founded 
stood,  before  he  entered  the  theatre,  traced  in  its  bare  outlines 
upon  the  spectator's  mind  ;  it  stood  in  his  memory,  as  a 
group  of  statuary,  faintly  seen,  at  the  end  of  a  long  and 
dark  vista :  then  came  the  Poet,  embodying  outlines,  de- 
veloping situations,  not  a   word   wasted,   not   a   sentiment 


16  PBEFACE. 

capriciously  thrown  in ;  stroke  upon  stroke,  the  drama  pro- 
ceeded :  the  light  deepened  upon  the  group  ;  more  and  more 
it  revealed  itself  to  the  rivetted  gaze  of  the  spectator  :  until 
at  last,  when  the  final  words  were  spoken,  it  stood  before 
him  in  broad  sunlight,  a  model  of  immortal  beauty. 

This  was  what  a  Greek  critic  demanded ;  this  was  what 
a  Greek  poet  endeavored  to  effect.  It  signified  nothing  to 
what  time  an  action  belonged ;  w^e  do  not  find  that  the 
Persae  occupied  a  particularly  high  rank  among  the 
dramas  of  ^schylus,  because  it  represented  a  matter  of 
contemporary  interest :  this  was  not  what  a  cultivated 
Athenian  required  ;  he  required  that  the  permanent  ele- 
ments of  his  nature  should  be  moved  ;  and  dramas  of  which 
the  action,  though  taken  from  a  long-distant  mythic  time, 
yet  was  calculated  to  accomplish  this  in  a  higher  degree 
than  that  of  the  Persce,  stood  higher  in  his  estimation  ac- 
cordingly. The  Greeks  felt,  no  doubt,  with  their  exquisite 
sagacity  of  taste,  that  an  action  of  present  times  was  too 
near  them,  too  much  mixed  up  with  what  was  accidental 
and  passing,  to  form  a  sufficiently  grand,  detached,  and 
self-subsistent  object  for  a  tragic  poem  :  such  objects  belonged 
to  the  domain  of  the  comic  poet,  and  of  the  lighter  kinds 
of  poetry.  For  the  more  serious  kinds,  for  pragmatic  poetry, 
to  use  an  excellent  expression  of  Poly bi us,  they  were  more 
difficult  and  severe  in  the  range  of  subjects  which  they  per- 
mitted. But  for  all  kinds  of  poetry  alike  there  was  one 
point  on  which  they  were  rigidly  exacting ;  the  adaptability 
of  the  subject  to  the  kind  of  poetry  selected,  and  the  careful 
construction  of  the  poem.  Their  theory  and  practice  alike, 
the  admirable  treatise  of  Aristotle,  and  the  unrivalled  works 
of  their  poets,  exclaim  w^ith  a  thousand  tongues  —  "All 
depends  upon  the  subject ;   choose  a  fitting  action,  penetrate 


rHEFACE. 


17 


yourself  with  the  feeling  of  its  situations  ;   this  done,  every-    / 
thing  else  will  follow." 

How  different  a  way  of  thinking  from  this  is  ours !  We 
can  hardly  at  the  present  day  understand  what  Menander 
meant,  w^hen  he  told  a  man  who  inquired  as  to  the  progress 
of  his  comedy  that  he  had  finished  it,  not  having  yet  written 
a  sino-le  line,  because  he  had  constructed  the  action  of  it 
in  his  mind.  A  modern  critic  would  have  assured  him 
that  the  merit  of  his  piece  depended  on  the  brilliant  things 
which  arose  under  his  pen  as  he  w^ent  along.  We  have 
poems  which  seem  to  exist  merely  for  the  sake  of  single 
lines  and  passages  ;  not  for  the  sake  of  producing  any  total 
impression.  We  have  critics  who  seem  to  direct  their  at- 
tention merely  to  detached  expressions,  to  the  language 
about  the  action,  not  to  the  action  itself.  I  verily  think 
that  the  majority  of  them  do  not  in  their  hearts  believe 
that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  total-impression  to  be  derived 
from  a  poem  at  all,  or  to  be  demanded  from  a  poet ;  they 
think  the  term  a  commonplace  of  metaphysical  criticism. 
They  will  permit  the  Poet  to  select  any  action  he  pleases, 
and  to  suffer  that  action  to  go  as  it  will,  provided  he  grati- 
fies them  with  occasional  bursts  of  fine  writing,  and  with  a 
shower  of  isolated  thoughts  and  images.  That  is,  they 
permit  him  to  leave  their  poetical  sense  ungratified,  pro- 
vided that  he  gratifies  their  rhetorical  sense  and  their  curi- 
osity. Of  his  neglecting  to  gratify  these,  there  is  little 
danger ;  he  needs  rather  to  be  warned  against  the  danger 
of  attempting  to  gratify  these  alqne  ;  he  needs  rather  to  be 
perpetually  reminded  to  prefer  his  action  to  everything  else  ; 
so  to  treat  this,  as  to  permit  its  inherent  excellences  to 
develope  themselves,  without  interruption  from  the  intrusion 
of  his  personal  peculiarities  :  most  fortunate,  when  he  most 


18  PREFACE. 

entirely  succe:ds  in  effiicing  himself,  and  in  enabling  a  noble 
action  to  subsist  as  it  did  in  nature. 

But  the  modern  critic  not  only  permits  a  false  practice ; 
he  absolutely  prescribes  false  aims.  —  '*  A  true  allegory 
of  the  state  of  one's  own  mind  in  a  representative  history," 
the  Poet  is  told,  "  is  perhaps  the  highest  thing  that  one 
can  attempt  in  the  way  of  poetry."  —  And  accordingly  he 
attempts  it.  An  allegory  of  the  state  of  one's  own  mind,  the 
highest  problem  of  an  art  which  imitates  actions !  No, 
assuredly,  it  is  not,  it  never  can  be  so  :  no  great  poetical 
work  has  ever  been  produced  with  such  an  aim.  Faust 
itself,  in  which  something  of  this  kind  is  attempted,  won- 
derful passages  as  it  contains,  and  in  spite  of  the  unsurpassed 
beauty  of  the  scenes  which  relate  to  Margaret,  Faust  itself, 
judged  as  a  whole,  and  judged  strictly  as  a  poetical  work, 
is  defective :  its  illustrious  author,  the  greatest  poet  of 
modern  times,  the  greatest  critic  of  all  times,  would  have 
been  the  first  to  acknowledge  it;  he  only  defended  his 
work,  indeed,  by  asserting  it  to  be  "  something  incommen- 
surable. ' ' 

The  confusion  of  the  present  times  is  great,  the  multi- 
tude of  voices  counselling  different  things  bewildering,  the 
number  of  existing  works  capable  of  attracting  a  young 
writer's  attention  and  of  becoming  his  models,  immense  : 
what  he  wants  is  a  hand  to  guide  him  through  the  confusion, 
a  voice  to  prescribe  to  him  the  aim  which  he  should  keep 
in  view,  and  to  explain  to  him  that  the  value  of  the  literary 
works  which  offer  themselves  to  his  attention  is  relative  to 
their  power  of  helping  him  forward  on  his  road  towards 
this  aim.  Such  a  guide  the  English  writer  at  the  present 
day  will  nowhere  find.  Failing  this,  all  that  can  be  looked 
for,  all  indeed  that  can  be  desired,  is,  that  his  attention 


PREFACE.  19 

should  be  fixed  on  excellent  models ;  that  he  may  reproduce, 
at  any  rate,  something  of  their  excellence,  by  penetrating 
himself  Avith  their  works  and  by  catching  their  spirit,  if 
he  cannot  be  taught  to  produce  what  is  excellent  independ- 
ently. 

Foremost  amongst  these  models  for  the  English  writer 
stands  Shakspeare  :  a  name  the  greatest  perhaps  of  all  poet- 
ical names ;  a  name  never  to  be  mentioned  without  reverence. 
I  will  venture,  however,  to  express  a  doubt,  whether  the 
influence  of  his  works,  excellent  and  fruitful  for  the  readers 
of  poetry,  for  the  great  majority,  has  been  of  unmixed 
advantage  to  the  writers  of  it.  Shakspeare  indeed  chose 
excellent  subjects;  the  world  could  aiSbrd  no  better  than 
Macbeth,  or  Romeo  and  Juliet,  or  Othello  :  he  had  no  theory 
respecting  the  necessity  of  choosing  subjects  of  present  im- 
port, or  the  paramount  interest  attaching  to  allegories  of 
the  state  of  one's  own  mind ;  like  all  great  poets,  he  knew 
well  what  constituted  a  poetical  action  ;  like  them,  wherever 
he  found  such  an  action,  he  took  it;  like  them,  too,  he 
found  his  best  in  past  times.  But  to  these  general  charac- 
teristics of  all  great  poets  he  added  a  special  one  of  his  own ; 
a  gift,  namely,  of  happy,  abundant,  and  ingenious  expres- 
sion, eminent  and  unrivalled :  so  eminent  as  irresistibly  to 
strike  the  attention  first  in  him,  and  even  to  throw  into 
comparative  shade  his  other  excellences  as  a  poet.  Here 
has  been  the  mischief.  These  other  excellences  were  his 
fundamental  excellences  as  a  poet;  what  distinguishes  the 
artist  from  the  amateur,  says  Goethe,  is  Architectonic^  in 
the  highest  sense  ;  that  power  of  execution,  which  creates, 
forms,  and  constitutes:  not  the  profoundness  of  single 
thoughts,  not  the  richness  of  imagery,  not  the  abundance 
of  illustration.     But  these  attractive  accessories  of  a  poetical 


20  PREFACE. 

work  being  move  easily  soized  than  the  spirit  of  the  whole, 
and  their  accessories  being  possessed  bj  Shakspeare  in  an 
unequal  degree,  a  young  writer  having  recourse  to  Shakspeare 
as  his  model  runs  great  risk  of  being  vanquished  and  ab- 
sorbed by  them,  and,  in  consequence,  of  producing,  according 
to  the  measure  of  his  power,  these,  and  these  alone.  Of  this 
preponderating  quality  of  Shakspeare's  genius,  accordingly, 
almost  the  whole  of  modern  English  poetry  has,  it  appears 
to  me,  felt  the  influence.  To  the  exclusive  attention  on  the 
part  of  his  imitators  to  this  it  is  in  a  great  degree  owing, 
that  of  the  majority  of  modern  poetical  works  the  details  alone 
are  valuable,  the  composition  worthless.  In  reading  them  one 
is  perpetually  reminded  of  that  terrible  sentence  on  a  modern 
French  poet  —  il  dit  tout  ce  qvHl  veut,  mais  malheureusement 
il  n^a  rien  il  dire. 

Let  me  give  an  instance  of  what  I  mean.  I  will  take  it 
from  the  works  of  the  very  chief  among  those  who  seem  to 
have  been  formed  in  the  school  of  Shakspeare  :  of  one  whoso 
exquisite  genius  and  pathetic  death  render  him  forever  inter- 
esting. I  will  take  the  poem  of  Isabella,  or  the  Pot  of  Basil, 
by  Keats.  I  choose  this  rather  than  the  Endymion,  because 
the  latter  work,  (which  a  modern  critic  has  classed  with  the 
Fairy  Queen  !  )  although  undoubtedly  there  blows  through  it 
the  breath  of  genius,  is  yet  as  a  whole  so  utterly  incoherent, 
as  not  strictly  to  merit  the  name  of  a  poem  at  all.  The 
Isabella,  then,  is  a  perfect  treasure-house  of  graceful  and 
felicitous  words  and  images  :  almost  in  every  stanza  there 
occurs  one  of  those  vivid  and  picturesque  turns  of  expression, 
by  which  the  object  is  made  to  flash  upon  the  eye  of  the 
mind,  and  which  thrill  the  reader  with  a  sudden  delight. 
This  one  short  poem  contains,  perhaps,  a  greater  number  of 
happy  single  expressions  which  one  could  quote  than  all  the 


PREFACE.  21 

extant  tragedies  of  Sophocles.  But  the  action,  the  story  ? 
The  action  in  itself  is  an  excellent  one  ;  but  so  feebly  is  it 
conceived  by  the  Poet,  so  loosely  constructed,  that  the  effect 
produced  by  it,  in  and  for  itself,  is  absolutely  null.  Let  the 
reader,  after  he  has  finished  the  poem  of  Keats,  turn  to  the 
same  story  in  the  Decameron :  he  will  then  feel  how  preg- 
nant and  interesting  the  same  action  has  become  in  the 
hands  of  a  great  artist,,  who  above  all  things  delineates  his 
object ;  who  subordinates  expression  to  that  which  it  is 
designed  to  express. 

I  have  said  that  the  imitators  of  Shakspeare,  fixing  their 
attention  on  his  wonderful  gift  of  expression,  have  directed 
their  imitation  to  this,  neglecting  his  other  excellences. 
These  excellences,  the  fundamental  excellences  of  poetical 
art,  Shakspeare  no  doubt  possessed  them  —  possessed  many  of 
them  in  a  splendid  degree  ;  but  it  may  perhaps  be  doubted 
whether  even  he  himself  did  not  sometimes  give  scope  to  his 
faculty  of  expression  to  the  prejudice  of  a  higher  poetical 
duty.  For  we  must  never  forget  that  Shakspeare  is  the  great 
poet  he  is  from  his  skill  in  discerning  and  firmly  conceiving 
an  excellent  action,  from  his  power  of  intensely  feeling  a 
situation,  of  intimately  associating  himself  with  a  character  ; 
not  from  his  gift  of  expression,  which  rather  even  leads  him 
astray,  degenerating  sometimes  into  a  fondness  for  curiosity 
of  expression,  into  an  irritability  of  fancy,  which  seems  to 
make  it  impossible  for  him  to  say  a  thing  plainly,  even  when 
the  press  of  the  action  demands  the  very  directest  language, 
or  its  level  character  the  very  simplest.  Mr.  Hallam,  than 
whom  it  is  impossible  to  find  a  saner  and  more  judicious 
critic,  has  had  the  courage  (for  at  the  present  day  it  needs 
courage)  to  remark,  how  extremely  and  faultily  difficult  Shak- 
speare's  language  often  is.   It  is  so  :  you  may  find  main  scenes 


22  PREFACE. 

in  some  of  his  greatest  tragedies,  King  Lear  for  instance, 
where  the  language  is  so  artificial,  so  curiously  tortured,  and 
so  difficult,  that  every  speech  has  to  be  read  two  or  three 
times  before  its  meaning  can  be  comprehended.  This  over- 
curiousness  of  expression  is  indeed  but  the  excessive  employ- 
ment of  a  wonderful  gift  —  of  the  power  of  saying  a  thing 
in  a  happier  way  than  any  other  man  ;  nevertheless,  it  is  car- 
ried so  far  that  one  understands  what  M.  Guizot  meant,  when 
he  said  that  Shakspeare  appears  in  his  language  to  have  tried 
all  styles  except  that  of  simplicity.  He  has  not  the  severe 
and  scrupulous  self-restraint  of  the  ancients,  partly  no  doubt, 
because  he  had  a  far  less  cultivated  and  exacting  audience  : 
he  has  indeed  a  far  wider  range  than  they  had,  a  far  richer 
fertility  of  thought ;  in  this  respect  he  rises  above  them  :  in 
his  strong  conception  of  his  subject,  in  the  genuine  way  in 
which  he  is  penetrated  with  it,  he  resembles  them,  and  is 
unlike  the  moderns  :  but  in  the  accurate  limitation  of  it,  the 
conscientious  rejection  of  superfluities,  the  simple  and  rigor- 
ous development  of  it  from  the  first  line  of  his  work  to  the 
last,  he  falls  below  them,  and  comes  nearer  to  the  moderns. 
In  his  chief  works,  besides  what  he  has  of  his  own,  he  has 
the  elementary  soundness  of  the  ancients  ;  he  has  their  im- 
portant action  and  their  large  and  broad  manner  :  but  he  has 
not  their  purity  of  method.  He  is  therefore  a  less  safe 
model ;  for  what  he  has  of  his  own  is  personal,  and  insepara- 
ble from  his  own  rich  nature  ;  it  may  be  imitated  and  exag- 
gerated, it  cannot  be  learned  or  applied  as  an  art ;  he  is,  above 
all,  suggestive  ;  more  valuable,  therefore,  to  young  writers 
as  men  than  as  artists.  But  the  clearness  of  arrangement, 
rigor  of  development,  simplicity  of  style — these  may  to  a 
certain  extent  be  learned  :  and  these  may,  I  am  convinced,  be 
learned  best  from  the  ancients,  who  although  infinitely  less 


PKEFACE.  23 

suggestive  than  Shakspeare,  are  thus,  to  the  artist,  more  in- 
structive. 

What  then,  it  will  be  asked,  are  the  ancients  to  be  our  sole 
models  ?  the  ancients  with  their  comparatively  narrow  range 
of  experience,  and  their  widely  different  circumstances?  Not, 
certainly,  that  which  is  narrow  in  the  ancients,  nor  that  in 
which  we  can  no  longer  sympathize.  An  action  like  the 
action  of  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles,  which  turns  upon  the 
conflict  between  the  heroine's  duty  to  her  brother's  corpse 
and  that  to  the  laws  of  her  country,  is  no  longer  one  in 
which  it  is  possible  that  we  should  feel  a  deep  interest.  I  am 
speaking  too,  it  will  be  remembered,  not  of  the  best  sources 
of  intellectual  stimulus  for  the  general  reader,  but  for  the  best 
models  of  instruction  for  the  individual  writer.  This  last 
may  certainly  learn  of  the  ancients,  better  than  anywhere  else, 
three  things  which  it  is  vitally  important  for  him  to  know  :  — 
the  all-importance  of  the  choice  of  a  subject ;  the  necessity 
of  accurate  construction  ;  and  the  subordinate  character  of 
expression.  He  will  learn  from  them  how  unspeakably  su- 
perior is  the  effect  of  the  one  moral  impression  left  by  a  great 
action  treated  as  a  whole,  to  the  effect  produced  by  the  most 
striking  single  thought  or  by  the  happiest  image.  As  he 
penetrates  into  the  spirit  of  the  great  classical  works,  as  he 
becomes  gradually  aware  of  their  intense  significance,  their 
noble  simplicity,  and  their  calm  pathos,  he  will  be  convinced 
that  it  is  this  effect,  unity  and  profoundness  of  moral  impres- 
sion, at  which  the  ancient  Poets  aimed  ;  that  it  is  this  which 
constitutes  the  grandeur  of  their  works,  and  which  makes 
them  immortal.  He  will  desire  to  direct  his  own  efforts 
towards  producing  the  same  effect.  Above  all,  he  will  deliver 
himself  from  the  jargon  of  modern  criticism,  and  escape  the 
danger  of  producing  poetical  works  conceived  in  the  spirit  of 
the  passing  time,  and  which  partake  of  its  transitoriness. 


24  PREFACE. 

The  present  age  makes  great  claims  upon  us :  we  owe  it 
service,  it  will  not  be  satisfied  without  our  admiration.  I 
know  not  how  it  is,  but  their  commerce  with  the  ancients 
appears  to  me  to  produce,  in  those  who  constantly  practise 
it,  a  steadying  and  composing  effect  upon  their  judgment, 
not  of  literary  works  only,  but  of  men  and  events  in  general. 
They  are  like  persons  who  have  had  a  very  weighty  and  im- 
pressive experience  :  they  are  more  truly  than  others  under 
the  empire  of  facts,  and  more  independent  of  the  language 
current  among  those  with  whom  they  live.  They  wish  neither 
to  applaud  nor  to  revile  their  age  :  they  wish  to  know  what 
it  is,  what  it  can  give  them,  and  whether  this  is  what  they 
want.  What  they  want,  they  know  very  well ;  they  want 
to  educe  and  cultivate  what  is  best  and  noblest  in  themselves  : 
they  know,  too,  that  this  is  no  easy  task  —  /uXenor,  as  Pitta- 
cus  said,  xu?.sniv  io^Xov  tiiutvai  —  and  they  ask  themselves 
sincerely  whether  their  age  and  its  literature  can  assist  them 
in  the  attempt.  If  they  are  endeavoring  to  practise  any 
art,  they  remember  the  plain  and  simple  proceedings  of  the 
old  artists,  who  attained  their  grand  results  by  penetrating 
themselves  with  some  noble  and  significant  action,  not  by  in- 
flating themselves  with  a  belief  in  the  preeminent  importance 
and  greatness  of  their  own  times.  They  do  not  talk  of  their 
mission,  nor  of  interpreting  their  age,  nor  of  the  coming 
Poet ;  all  this,  they  know,  is  the  mere  delirium  of  vanity  ; 
their  business  is  not  to  praise  their  age,  but  to  afford  to  the 
men  who  live  in  it  the  highest  pleasure  which  they  are  capa- 
ble of  feeling.  If  asked  to  afford  this  by  means  of  subjects 
drawn  from  the  age  itself,  they  ask  what  special  fitness  the 
present  age  has  for  supplying  them  :  they  are  told  that  it  is 
an  era  of  progress,  an  age  commissioned  to  carry  out  the 
great  ideas  of  industrial  development  and  social  amelioration. 


PREFACE.  25 

They  reply  that  with  all  this  they  can  do  nothing  ;  that  the 
elements  they  need  for  the  exercise  of  their  art  are  great 
actions,  calculated  powerfully  and  delightfully  to  affect  what 
is  permanent  in  the  human  soul ;  that  so  far  as  the  present 
age  can  supply  such  actions,  they  will  gladly  make  use  of 
them  ;  but  that  an  age  wanting  in  moral  grandeur  can  with 
diOEiculty  supply  such,  and  an  age  of  spiritual  discomfort  with 
difficulty  be  powerfully  and  delightfully  affected  by  them. 

A  host  of  voices  will  indignantly  rejoin  that  the  present 
age  is  inferior  to  the  past  neither  in  moral  grandeur  nor  in 
spiritual  health.  He  who  possesses  the  discipline  I  speak  of 
will  content  himself  with  remembering  the  judgments  passed 
upon  the  present  age,  in  this  respect,  by  the  men  of  strongest 
head  and  widest  culture  whom  it  has  produced ;  by  Goethe 
and  by  Niebuhr.  It  will  be  sufficient  for  him  that  he  knows 
the  opinions  held  by  these  two  great  men  respecting  the  pres- 
ent age  and  its  literature  ;  and  that  he  feels  assured  in  his 
own  mind  that  their  aims  and  demands  upon  life  were  such 
as  he  would  wish,  at  any  rate,  his  own  to  be ;  and  their 
judgment  as  to  what  is  impeding  and  disabling  such  as  he 
may  safely  follow.  He  will  not,  however,  maintain  a  hos- 
tile attitude  towards  the  false  pretensions  of  his  age  ;  he  will 
content  himself  with  not  being  overwhelmed  by  them .  He 
will  esteem  himself  fortunate  if  he  can  succeed  in  banishing 
from  his  mind  all  feelings  of  contradiction,  and  irritation, 
and  impatience ;  in  order  to  delight  himself  with  the  con- 
templation of  some  noble  action  of  heroic  time,  and  to 
enable  others,  through  his  representation  of  it,  to  delight  in. 
it  also. 

I  am  far  indeed  from  making  any  claim,  for  myself,  that  1 
possess  this  discipline  ;  or  for  the  following  Poems,  that  they 
breathe  its  spirit.     But  I  say,  that  in  the  sincere  endeavor  to 

2 


26  PREFACE. 

learn  and  practise,  amid  the  bewildering  confusion  of  our 
times,  what  is  sound  and  true  in  poetical  art,  I  seemed  to 
myself  to  find  the  only  sure  guidance,  the  only  solid  footing, 
among  the  ancients.  They,  at  any  rate,  knew  what  they 
wanted  in  Art,  and  we  do  not.  It  is  this  uncertainty  which 
is  disheartening,  and  not  hostile  criticism.  How  often  have 
I  felt  this  when  reading  words  of  disparagement  or  of  cavil  : 
that  it  is  the  uncertainty  as  to  what  is  really  to  be  aimed  at 
which  makes  our  difficulty,  not  the  dissatisfaction  of  the 
critic,  who  himself  suffers  from  the  same  uncertainty.  Non 
me  tua  turhida  terrent  Dicta:  Dii  me  terreni,  et  Jupiter 
hostis. 

Two  kinds  of  dilettanti,  says  Goethe,  there  are  in  poetry  : 
he  who  neglects  the  indispensable  mechanical  part,  and  thinks 
he  has  done  enough  if  he  shows  spirituality  and  feeling ; 
and  he  who  seeks  to  arrive  at  poetry  merely  by  mechanism, 
in  which  he  can  acquire  an  artisan's  readiness,  and  is  without 
soul  and  matter.  And  he  adds,  that  the  first  does  most  harm 
to  Art,  and  the  last  to  himself.  If  we  must  be  dilettanti ;  if 
it  is  impossible  for  us,  under  the  circumstances  amidst  which 
we  live,  to  think  clearly,  to  feel  nobly,  and  to  delineate 
firmly  ;  if  we  cannot  attain  to  the  mastery  of  the  great 
artists —  let  us,  at  least,  have  so  much  respect  for  our  Art  as 
to  prefer  it  to  ourselves  ;  let  us  not  bewilder  our  successors  ;  let 
us  transmit  to  them  the  practice  of  Poetry,  with  its  bound- 
aries and  wholesome  regulative  laws,  under  which  excellent 
works  may  again,  perhaps,  at  some  future  time,  be  produced, 
not  yet  fallen  into  oblivion  through  our  neglect,  not  yet  con- 
demned and  cancelled  by  the  influence  of  their  eternal  enemy, 
Caprice. 

Fox  How,  Ambleside^ 
October  1,  1853. 


"^A  fiuxuQ,  (ioTig  h]v  xtivov  j^qovov  t'^^Jt?  aoidi'jg 
Movaawv  -d^tQuTKaVf  or'  axsigarog  Jjv  sri  Xttuwv 
rvv  d',  oTB  nuvrcc  didaarai,  sj(ovai  8i  miqara  rix^ai, 
voxaroi  ciars  dQOfiov  >caraXein6iie6^ 


POEMS. 


One  lesso7i.  Nature,  let  me  learn  of  thee. 
One  lesson,  that  in  every  wind  is  blown  : 
One  lesson  of  two  duties  serv'd  in  one. 
Though  the  loud  world  proclaim  their  enmity - 

Of  Toil  unsever'd  from  Tranquillity, 
Of  Labor,  that  in  still  advance  outgrows 
Far  noisier  schemes,  accomplished  in  Repose, 
Too  great  for  haste,  too  high  for  rivalry. 
Yes,  while  on  earth  a  thousand  discords  ring, 
Man's  senseless  uproar  mingling  with  his  toil. 
Still  do  thy  sleepless  ministers  move  on. 
Their  glorious  tasks  in  silence  perfecting  : 
Still  working,  blaming  still  our  vain  turmoil ; 
Laborers  that  shall  not  fail,  when  man  is  gone. 


SOHRAB  AND   RUSTUM. 

AN    EPISODE. 

And  the  first  gray  of  morning  fiU'd  the  east, 

And  the  fog  rose  out  of  the  Oxus  stream. 

But  all  the  Tartar  camp  along  the  stream 

Was  hush'd,  and  still  the  men  were  plunged  in  sleep  : 

Sohrab  alone,  he  slept  not :  all  night  long 

He  had  lain  wakeful,  tossing  on  his  bed ; 

But  when  the  gray  dawn  stole  into  his  tent, 

He  rose,  and  clad  himself,  and  girt  his  sword. 

And  took  his  horseman's  cloak,  and  left  his  tent, 

And  went  abroad  into  the  cold  wet  fog, 

Through  the  dim  camp  to  Peran-Wisa's  tent. 

Through  the  black  Tartar  tents  he  pass'd,  which  stood 
Clustering  like  bee-hives  on  the  low  flat  strand 
Of  Oxus,  where  the  summer  floods  o'erflow 
When  the  sun  melts  the  snows  in  high  Pamere  : 
Through  the  black  tents  he  pass'd,  o'er  that  low  strand, 
And  to  a  hillock  came,  a  little  back 
From  the  stream's  brink,  the  spot  where  first  a  boat, 
Crossing  the  stream  in  summer,  scrapes  the  land. 


32  SOHKAB    AND    KIJSTUM. 

The  men  of  former  times  had  crown' d  the  top 
With  a  clay  fort :  but  that  was  fall'n ;  and  now 
The  Tartars  built  there  Peran-Wisa's  tent, 
A  dome  of  laths,  and  o'er  it  felts  were  spread. 
And  Sohrab  came  there,  and  went  in,  and  stood 
Upon  the  thick-pil'd  carpets  in  the  tent, 
And  found  the  old  man  sleeping  on  his  bed 
Of  rugs  and  felts,  and  near  him  lay  his  arms. 
And  Peran-Wisa  heard  him,  though  the  step 
Was  duU'd ;  for  he  slept  light,  an  old  man's  sleep  ; 
And  he  rose  quickly  on  one  arm,  and  said :  — 

"  Who  art  thou  ?  for  it  is  not  yet  clear  dawn. 
Speak  !  is  there  news,  or  any  night  alarm?  " 

But  Sohrab  came  to  the  bedside,  and  said :  — 
"  Thou  know'st  me,  Peran-Wisa  :  it  is  I. 
The  sun  is  not  yet  risen,  and  the  foe 
Sleep  ;  but  I  sleep  not ;  all  night  long  I  lie 
Tossing  and  wakeful,  and  I  come  to  thee. 
For  so  did  King  Afrasiab  bid  me  seek 
Thy  counsel,  and  to  heed  thee  as  thy  son. 
In  Sarmacand,  before  the  army  march'd ; 
And  I  will  tell  thee  what  my  heart  desires. 
Thou  knowest  if,  since  from  Ader-baijan  first 
I  came  among  the  Tartars,  and  bore  arms, 
I  have  still  serv'd  Afrasiab  well,  and  shown, 
At  my  boy's  years,  the  courage  of  a  man. 
This  too  thou  know'st,  that,  while  I  still  bear  on 
The  conquering  Tartar  ensigns  through  the  world, 
And  beat  the  Persians  back  on  every  field, 


SOHRAB    AND    RUSTUM.  33 

I  seek  one  man,  one  man,  and  one  alone. 

Rustum,  my  father;  who,  I  hop'd,  should  greet, 

Should  one  day  greet,  upon  some  well-fought  field 

His  not  unworthy,  not  inglorious  son. 

So  I  long  hop'd,  but  him  I  never  find. 

Come  then,  hear  now,  and  grant  me  what  I  ask. 

Let  the  two  armies  rest  to-day :  but  I 

Will  challenge  forth  the  bravest  Persian  lords 

To  meet  me,  man  to  man  :  if  I  prevail, 

Rustum  will  surely  hear  it ;  if  I  fall  — 

Old  man,  the  dead  need  no  one,  claim  no  kin. 

Dim  is  the  rumor  of  a  common  fight, 

Where  host  meets  host,  and  many  names  are  sunk : 

But  of  a  single  combat  Fame  speaks  clear." 

He  spoke  :  and  Reran- Wisa  took  the  hand 
Of  the  young  man  in  his,  and  sigh'd,  and  said :  — 

"  O  Sohrab,  an  unquiet  heart  is  thine  ! 
Canst  thou  not  rest  among  the  Tartar  chiefs, 
And  share  the  battle's  common  chance  with  us 
Who  love  thee,  but  must  press  forever  first, 
In  single  fight  incurring  single  risk. 
To  find  a  father  thou  hast  never  seen  ? 
Or,  if  indeed  this  one  desire  rules  all, 
To  seek  out  Rustum  —  seek  him  not  through  fight : 
Seek  him  in  peace,  and  carry  to  his  arms, 
O  Sohrab,  carry  an  unwounded  son ! 
But  far  hence  seek  him,  for  he  is  not  here. 
For  now  it  is  not  as  when  I  was  young. 
When  Rustum  was  in  front  of  every  fray  : 


34  SOHKAB    AND    RUSTUM. 

But  now  he  keeps  apart,  and  sits  at  home, 

In  Seistan,  with  Zal,  his  father  old. 

Whether  that  his  own  mighty  strength  at  last 

Feels  the  abhorr'd  approaches  of  old  age ; 

Or  in  some  quarrel  with  the  Persian  King. 

There  go  :  —  Thou  wilt  not  ?     Yet  my  heart  forebodes 

Danger  or  death  awaits  thee  on  this  field. 

Fain  would  I  know  thee  safe  and  well,  though  lost 

To  us  :  fain  therefore  send  thee  hence,  in  peace 

To  seek  thy  father,  not  seek  single  fights 

In  vain  :  — but  who  can  keep  the  lion's  cub 

From  ravening?  and  who  govern  Rustum's  son? 

Go  :  I  will  grant  theef  what  thy  heart  desires." 

So  said  he,  and  dropp'd  Sohrab's  hand,  and  left 
His  bed,  and  the  warm  rugs  whereon  he  lay. 
And  o'er  his  chilly  limbs  his  woollen  coat 
He  pass'd,  and  tied  his  sandals  on  his  feet, 
And  threw  a  white  cloak  round  him,  and  he  took 
In  his  right  hand  a  ruler's  stafi",  no  sword ; 
And  on  his  head  he  plac'd  his  sheep-skin  cap. 
Black,  glossy,  curl'd,  the  fleece  of  Kara-Kul ; 
And  rais'd  the  curtain  of  his  tent,  and  call'd 
His  herald  to  his  side,  and  went  abroad. 

The  sun,  by  this,  had  risen,  and  clear'd  the  fog 
From  the  broad  Oxus  and  the  glittering  sands : 
And  from  their  tents  the  Tartar  horsemen  fil'd 
Into  the  open  plain ;  so  Haman  bade ; 
Haman,  who  next  to  Peran-Wisa  rul'd 
The  host,  and  still  was  in  his  lusty  prime. 


SOHRAB    AND    RUSTTJM.  3^ 

From  their  black  tents,  long  files  of  horse,  they  stream'd : 

As  when,  some  gray  November  morn,  the  files. 

In  marching  order  spread,  of  long-neck'd  cranes, 

Stream  over  Casbin,  and  the  southern  slopes 

Of  Elburz,  from  the  Aralian  estuaries. 

Or  some  frore  Caspian  reed-bed,  southward  bound 

For  the  warm  Persian  sea-board :   so  they  stream'd. 

The  Tartars  of  the  Oxus,  the  King's  guard. 

First,  with  black  sheep-skin  caps  and  with  long  spears ; 

Large  men,  large  steeds ;  who  from  Bokhara  come 

And  Khiva,  and  ferment  the  milk  of  mares. 

Next  the  more  temperate  Toorkmuns  of  the  south, 

The  Tukas,  and  the  lances  of  Sal  ore. 

And  those  from  Attruck  and  the  Caspian  sands ; 

Light  men,  and  on  light  steeds,  who  only  drink 

The  acrid  milk  of  camels,  and  their  wells. 

And  then  a  swarm  of  wandering  horse,  who  came 

From  far,  and  a  more  doubtful  service  own'd ; 

The  Tartars  of  Ferghana,  from  the  banks 

Of  the  Jaxartes,  men  with  scanty  beards 

And  close-set  skull-caps  ;  and  those  wilder  hordes 

Who  roam  o'er  Kipchak  and  the  northern  waste, 

Kalmuks  and  unkemp'd  Kuzzaks,  tribes  who  stray 

Nearest  the  Pole,  and  wandering  Kirghizzes, 

Who  come  on  shaggy  ponies  from  Pamere. 

These  all  fil'd  out  from  camp  into  the  plain. 

And  on  the  other  side  the  Persians  form'd : 

First  a  light  cloud  of  horse,  Tartars  they  seem'd, 

The  Ilyats  of  Khorassan  :  and  behind, 


36  SOHBAB    AND    RFSTUM. 

The  royal  troops  of  Persia,  horse  and  foot, 

Marshall' d  battalions  bright  in  burnished  steel. 

But  Peran-Wisa  with  his  herald  came 

Threading  the  Tartar  squadrons  to  the  front, 

And  with  his  staff  kept  back  the  foremost  ranks. 

And  when  Ferood,  who  led  the  Persians,  saw 

That  Peran-Wisa  kept  the  Tartars  back. 

He  took  his  spear,  and  to  the  front  he  came. 

And  check'd  his  ranks,  and  fix'd  them  where  they  stood. 

And  the  old  Tartar  came  upon  the  sand 

Betwixt  the  silent  hosts,  and  spake,  and  said  :  — 

"  Ferood,  and  ye,  Persians  and  Tartars,  hear  ! 
Let  there  be  truce  between  the  hosts  to-day. 
But  choose  a  champion  from  the  Persian  lords 
To  fight  our  champion  Sohrab,  man  to  man." 

As,  in  the  country,  on  a  morn  in  June, 
When  the  dew  glistens  on  the  pearled  ears, 
A  shiver  runs  through  the  deep  corn  for  joy  — 
So,  when  they  heard  what  Peran-Wisa  said, 
A  thrill  through  all  the  Tartar  squadrons  ran 
Of  pride  and  hope  for  Sohrab,  whom  they  lov'd. 

But  as  a  troop  of  pedlars,  from  Cabool, 
Cross  underneath  the  Indian  Caucasus, 
That  vast  sky-neighboring  mountain  of  milk  snow  ; 
Winding  so  high,  that,  as  they  mount,  they  pass 
Long  flocks  of  travelling  birds  dead  on  the  snow, 
Chok'd  by  the  air,  and  scarce  can  they  themselves 
Slake  their  parch' d  throats  with  sugar' d  mulberries  — 
In  single  file  they  move,  and  stop  their  breath, 


SOHRAB    AND    KUSTUM.  37 

For  fear  they  should  dislodge  the  o'erhanging  snows  — 
So  the  pale  Persians  held  their  breath  with  fear. 

And  to  Ferood  his  brother  Chiefs  came  up 
To  counsel :  Gudurz  and  Zoarrah  came, 
And  Feraburz,  who  rul'd  the  Persian  host 
Second,  and  was  the  uncle  of  the  King  : 
These  came  and  counsell'd  ;  and  then  Gudurz  said  :  — 

"  Ferood,  shame  bids  us  take  their  challenge  up. 
Yet  champion  have  we  none  to  match  this  youth. 
He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,  the  lion's  heart. 
But  Rustum  came  last  night ;  aloof  he  sits 
And  sullen,  and  has  pitch' d  his  tents  apart : 
Him  will  I  seek,  and  carry  to  his  ear 
The  Tartar  challenge,  and  this  young  man's  name. 
Haply  he  will  forget  his  wrath,  and  fight. 
Stand  forth  the  while,  and  take  their  challenge  up." 

So  spake  he  ;  and  Ferood  stood  forth  and  said :  — 
"  Old  man,  be  it  agreed  as  thou  hast  said. 
Let  Sohrab  arm,  and  we  will  find  a  man." 

He  spoke  ;  and  Peran-Wisa  turn'd,  and  strode 
Back  through  the  opening  squadrons  to  his  tent. 
But  through  the  anxious  Persians  Gudurz  ran, 
And  cross'd  the  camp  which  lay  behind,  and  reach'd. 
Out  on  the  sands  beyond  it,  Rustum's  tents. 
Of  scarlet  cloth  they  were,  and  glittering  gay. 
Just  pitch' d :   the  high  pavilion  in  the  midst 
Was  Rustum's,  and  his  men  lay  camp'd  around. 
And  Gudurz  enter'd  Rustum's  tent,  and  found 
Rustum  :  his  morning  meal  was  done,  but  still 


38  SOHRAB    AND    RITSTUM. 

The  table  stood  beside  him,  charg'd  with  food ; 
A  side  of  roasted  sheep,  and  cakes  of  bread, 
And  dark  green  melons  ;  and  there  Rustum  sate 
Listless,  and  held  a  falcon  on  his  wrist, 
And  play'd  with  it ;  but  Gudurz  came  and  stood 
Before  him;  and  he  look'd  and  saw  him  stand  ; 
And  with  a  cry  sprang  up,  and  dropp'd  the  bird. 
And  greeted  Gudurz  with  both  hands,  and  said  :  — 

"  Welcome  !  these  eyes  could  see  no  better  sight. 
What  news  ?  but  sit  down  first,  and  eat  and  drink." 

But  Gudurz  stood  in  the  tent  door,  and  said  :  — 
"  Not  now  :  a  time  will  come  to  eat  and  drink, 
But  not  to-day  :  to-day  has  other  needs. 
The  armies  are  drawn  out,  and  stand  at  gaze  : 
For  from  the  Tartars  is  a  challenge  brought 
To  pick  a  champion  from  the  Persian  lords 
To  fight  their  champion  —  and  thou  know'st  his  name 
Sohrab  men  call  him,  but  his  birth  is  hid. 
O  Rustum,  like  thy  might  is  this  young  man's  ! 
He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,  the  lion's  heart. 
And  he  is  young,  and  Iran's  Chiefs  are  old. 
Or  else  too  weak ;  and  all  eyes  turn  to  thee. 
Come  down  and  help  us,  Rustum,  or  we  lose." 

He  spoke  :  but  Rustum  answer' d  with  a  smile  :  — 
"  Go  to !  if  Iran's  Chiefs  are  old,  then  I 
Am  older  :  if  the  yoiing  are  weak,  the  King : 
Errs  strangely  :  for  the  King,  for  Kai  Khosroo, 
Himself  is  young,  and  honors  younger  men. 
And  lets  the  aged  moulder  to  their  graves. 


SOHKAB    AND    KITSTUM.  39 

Rustum  lie  loves  no  more,  but  loves  the  young  — 
The  young  may  rise  at  Sohrab's  vaunts,  not  I. 
For  what  care  I,  though  all  speak  Sohrab's  fame  ? 
For  would  that  I  myself  had  such  a  son, 
And  not  that  one  slight  helpless  girl  I  have, 
A  son  so  fam'd,  so  brave,  to  send  to  war, 
And  I  to  tarry  with  the  snow-hair'd  Zal, 
My  father,  whom  the  robber  Afghans  vex, 
And  clip  his  borders  short,  and  drive  his  herds. 
And  he  has  none  to  guard  his  weak  old  age. 
There  would  I  go,  and  hang  my  armor  up. 
And  with  my  great  name  fence  that  weak  old  man. 
And  spend  the  goodly  treasures  I  have  got. 
And  rest  my  age,  and  hear  of  Sohrab's  fame. 
And  leave  to  death  the  -hosts  of  thankless  kings, 
And  with   these    slaughterous   hands    draw   sword   no 
more." 
He  spoke,  and  smil'd  ;  and  Gudurz  made  reply  :  — 
"  What  then,  O  Rustum,  will  men  say  to  this. 
When  Sohrab  dares  our  bravest  forth,  and  seeks 
Thee  most  of  all,  and  thou,  whom  most  he  seeks, 
Hidest  thy  face  ?     Take  heed,  lest  men  should  say. 
Like  some  old  miser,  Rustum  hoards  his  fame ^ 
And  shuns  to  peril  it  with  younger  men.'^ 
And,  greatly  mov'd,  then  Rustum  made  reply  :  — 
"  O  Gudurz,  wherefore  dost  thou  say  such  words? 
Thou  knowest  better  words  than  this  to  say. 
What  is  one  more,  one  less,  obscure  or  fam'd. 
Valiant  or  craven,  young  or  old,  to  me  ? 


i     - 

40  SOHRAB    AND    EUSTUM. 

Are  not  they  mortal,  am  not  I  myself? 

But  wio  for  men  of  nought  would  do  great  deeds  ? 

Come,  thou  shalt  see  how  Rustum  hoards  his  fame. 

But  I  will  fight  unknown  and  in  plain  arms  ; 

Let  not  men  say  of  Rustum,  he  was  match' d 

In  single  fight  with  any  mortal  man." 

He  spoke,  and  frown'd ;  and  Gudurz  turn'd,  and  ran 
Back  quickly  through  the  camp  in  fear  and  joy, 
Fear  at  his  wrath,  but  joy  that  Rustum  came. 
But  Rustum  strode  to  his  tent  door,  and  calFd 
His  followers  in,  and  bade  them  bring  his  arms. 
And  clad  himself  in  steel :  the  arms  he  chose 
Were  plain,  and  on  his  shield  was  no  device, 
Only  his  helm  was  rich,  inlaid  with  gold, 
And  from  the  fluted  spine  atop  a  plume 
Of  horsehair  waiv'd,  a  scarlet  horsehair  plume. 
So  arm'd  he  issued  forth  ;  and  Ruksh,  his  horse, 
Follow' d  him,  like  a  faithful  hound,  at  heel, 
Ruksh,  whose  renown  was  nois'd  through  all  the  earth, 
The  horse,  whom  Rustum  on  a  foray  once 
Did  in  Bokhara  by  the  river  find 
A  colt  beneath  its  dam,  and  drove  him  home, 
And  rear'd  him  ;  a  bright  bay,  with  lofty  crest ; 
Dight  with  a  saddle-cloth  of  broider'd  green 
Crusted  with  gold,  and  on  the  ground  were  work'd 
All  beasts  of  chase,  all  beasts  which  hunters  know  : 
So  follow'd,  Rustum  left  his  tents,  and  cross'd 
The  camp,  and  to  the  Persian  host  appear'd. 
And  all  the  Persians  knew  him,  and  with  shouts 


SOHEAB    AND    EUSTITM.  41 

Hail'd  ;  but  the  Tartars  knew  not  who  he  was. 
And  dear  as  the  wet  diver  to  the  eyes 
Of  his  pale  wife  who  waits  and  weeps  on  shore, 
By  sandy  Bahrein,  in  the  Persian  Gulf, 
Plunging  all  day  in  the  blue  waves,  at  night, 
Having  made  up  his  tale  of  precious  pearls. 
Rejoins  her  in  their  hut  upon  the  sands  — 
So  dear  to  the  pale  Persians  Rustum  came. 

And  Rustum  to  the  Persian  front  advanc'd,' 
And  Sohrab  arm'd  in  Haman's  tent,  and  came. 
And  as  afield  the  reapers  cut  a  swathe 
Down  through  the  middle  of  a  rich  man's  com, 
And  on  each  side  are  squares  of  standing  corn. 
And  in  the  midst  a  stubble,  short  and  bare  ; 
So  on  each  side  were  squares  of  men,  with  spears 
Bristling,  and  in  the  midst,  the  open  sand. 
And  Rustum  came  upon  the  sand,  and  cast 
His  eyes  towards  the  Tartar  tents,  and  saw 
Sohrab  come  forth,  and  ey'd  him  as  he  came. 

As  some  rich  woman,  on  a  winter's  morn. 
Eyes  through  her  silken  curtains  the  poor  drudge 
Who  with  numb  blacken' d  fingers  makes  her  fire  — 
At  cock-crow,  on  a  starlit  winter's  morn. 
When  the  frost  flowers  the  whiten'd  window  panes — 
And  wonders  how  she  lives,  and  what  the  thoughts 
Of  that  poor  drudge  may  be  ;  so  Rustum  ey'd 
The  unknown  adventurous  Youth,  who  from  afar 
Came  seeking  Rustum,  and  defying  forth 
All  the  most  valiant  chiefs :  long  he  perus'd 
3 


42  SOHKAB   AND    RXTSTUM. 

His  spirited  air,  and  wonder'd  who  he  was. 

For  very  young  he  seem'd,  tenderly  rear'd  ; 

Like  some  young  cypress,  tall,  and  dark,  and  straight, 

Which  in  a  queen's  secluded  garden  throws 

Its  slight  dark  shadow  on  the  moonlit  turf. 

By  midnight,  to  a  bubbling  fountain's  sound  — 

So  slender  Sohrab  seem'd,  so  softly  rear'd. 

And  a  deep  pity  enter' d  Rustum's  soul 

As  he  beheld  him  coming  ;  and  he  stood. 

And  beckon' d  to  him  with  his  hand,  and  said :  — 

*'  O  thou  young  man,  the  air  of  Heaven  is  soft, 
And  warm,  and  pleasant ;  but  the  grave  is  cold. 
Heaven's  air  is  better  than  the  cold  dead  grave. 
Behold  me  :  I  am  vast,  and  clad  in  iron. 
And  tried  ;  and  I  have  stood  on  many  a  field 
Of  blood,  and  I  have  fought  with  many  a  foe ; 
Never  was  that  field  lost,  or  that  foe  sav'd. 
O  Sohrab,  wherefore  wilt  thou  rush  on  death  ? 
Be  govern' d  :  quit  the  Tartar  host,  and  come 
To  Iran,  and  be  as  my  son  to  me. 
And  fight  beneath  my  banner  till  I  die. 
There  are  no  youths  in  Iran  brave  as  thou." 

So  he  spake,  mildly  :   Sohrab  heard  his  voice. 
The  mighty  voice  of  Rustum ;  and  he  saw 
His  giant  figure  planted  on  the  sand. 
Sole,  like  some  single  tower,  which  a  chief 
Has  builded  on  the  waste  in  former  years 
Against  the  robbers  ;  and  he  saw  that  head. 
Streak' d  with  its  first  gray  hairs :  hope  fill'd  his  soul ; 


SOHKAB    AND    KUSTUM.  43 

And  he  ran  forwards  and  embrac'd  his  knees, 
And  clasp' d  his  hand  within  his  own  and  said  :  — 

"  Oh,  by  thy  father's  head !  by  thine  own  soul ! 
Art  thou  not  Rustum  ?     Speak !  art  thou  not  he  ?  " 

But  Rustum  ey'd  askance  the  kneeling  youth, 
And  turn'd  away,  and  spoke  to  his  own  soul :  — 

"  Ah  me,  I  muse  what  this  young  fox  may  mean. 
False,  wily,  boastful,  are  these  Tartar  boys. 
For  if  I  now  confess  this  thing  he  asks. 
And  hide  it  not,  but  say  —  Rustum  is  here  — 
He  will  not  yield  indeed,  nor  quit  our  foes, 
But  he  will  find  some  pretext  not  to  fight, 
And  praise  my  fame,  and  profier  courteous  gifts, 
A  belt  or  sword  perhaps,  and  go  his  way. 
And  on  a  feast  day,  in  Afrasiab's  hall 
In  Samarcand,  he  will  arise  and  cry  — 
'  I  challeng'd  once,  when  the  two  armies  camp'd 
Beside  the  Oxus,  all  the  Persian  lords 
To  cope  with  me  in  single  fight ;  but  they 
Shrank  ;  only  Rustum  dar'd  :   theft  he  and  I 
Chang'd  gifts,  and  went  on  equal  terms  away.' 
So  will  he  speak,  perhaps,  while  men  applaud. 
Then  were  the  chiefs  of  Iran  sham'd  through  me." 

And  then  he  turn'd,  and  sternly  spake  aloud  :  — 
"  Rise  !  wherefore  dost  thou  vainly  question  thus 
Of  Rustum  ?    I  am  here,  whom  thou  hast  call'd 
By  challenge  forth :  make  good  thy  vaunt,  or  yield. 
Is  it  with  Rustum  only  thou  wouldst  fight  ? 
Rash  boy,  men  look  on  Rustum's  face  and  flee. 


44  SOHKAB    AND    KTJSTXJM. 

For  well  I  know,  that  did  great  Rustuni  stand 
Before  thy  face  this  day,  and  were  reveal' d. 
There  would  be  then  no  talk  of  fighting  more. 
But  being  what  I  am,  I  tell  thee  this ; 
Do  thou  record  it  in  thine  inmost  soul : 
Either  thou  shalt  renounce  thy  vaunt,  and  yield ; 
Or  else  thy  bones  shall  strew  this  sand,  till  winds 
Bleach  them,  or  Oxus  with  his  summer  floods, 
Oxus  in  summer  wash  them  all  away." 

He  spoke  :  and  Sohrab  answer' d,  on  his  feet ;  — 
*'  Art  thou  so  fierce  ?     Thou  wilt  not  fright  me  so. 
I  am  no  girl,  to  be  made  pale  by  words. 
Yet  this  thou  hast  said  well,  did  Rustum  stand 
Here  on  this  field,  there  were  no  fighting  then. 
But  Rustum  is  far  hence,  and  we  stand  here. 
Begin  :  thou  are  more  vast,  more  dread  than  I, 
And  thou  art  prov'd,  I  know,  and  I  am  young  — 
But  yet  success  sways  with  the  breath  of  Heaven. 
And  though  thou  thinkest  that  thou  knowest  sure 
Thy  victory,  yet  thou  canst  not  surely  know. 
For  we  are  all,  like  swimmers  in  the  sea, 
Pois'd  on  the  top  of  a  huge  wave  of  Fate, 
Which  hangs  uncertain  to  which  side  to  fall. 
And  whether  it  will  heave  us  up  to  land. 
Or  whether  it  will  roll  us  out  to  sea. 
Back  out  to  sea,  to  the  deep  waves  of  death. 
We  know  not,  and  no  search  will  make  us  know  : 
Only  the  event  will  teach  us  in  its  hour," 

He  spoke  ;  and  Rustum  answer'd  not,  but  hurl'd 


SOHRAB    AXD    KUSTUM.  45 

His  spear  :  down  from  the  shoulder,  down  it  came, 
As  on  some  partridge  in  the  corn  a  hawk 
That  long  has  tower' d  in  the  airy  clouds 
Drops  like  a  plummet :   Sohrab  saw  it  come, 
And  sprang  aside,  quick  as  a  flash  :  the  spear 
Hiss'd,  and  went  quivering  down  into  the  sand. 
Which  it  sent  flying  wide  :  —  then  Sohrab  threw 
In  turn,  and  full  struck  Rustum's  shield  :  sharp  rang, 
The  iron  plates  rang  sharp,  but  turn'd  the  spear. 
And  Rustum  seiz'd  his  club,  which  none  but  he 
Could  wield  :  an  unlopp'd  trunk  it  was,  and  huge, 
Still  rough ;  like  those  which  men  in  treeless  plains 
To  build  them  boats  flsh  from  the  flooded  rivers, 
Hyphasis  or  Hydaspes,  when,  high  up 
By  their  dark  springs,  the  wind  in  winter-time 
Has  made  in  Himalayan  forests  wrack. 
And  strewn  the  channels  with  torn  boughs  ;  so  huge 
The  club  which  Rustum  lifted  now,  and  struck 
One  stroke ;  but  again  Sohrab  sprang  aside 
Lithe  as  the  glancing  snake,  and  the  club  came 
Thundering  to  earth,  and  leapt  from  Rustum' s  hand. 
And  Rustum  follow'd  his  own  blow,  and  fell 
To  his  knees,  and  with  his  fingers  clutch' d  the  sand : 
And  now  might  Sohrab  have  unsheath'd  his  sword, 
And  pierc'd  the  mighty  Rustum  while  he  lay 
Dizzy,  and  on  his  knees,  and  chok'd  with  sand  : 
But  he  look'd  on,  and  smil'd,  nor  bar'd  his  sword, 
But  courteously  drew  back,  and  spoke,  and  said :  — 
"  Thou  strik'st  too  hard :  that  club  of  thine  will  float 


46  SOHRAB   AIS-D    ETJSTIJM. 

Upon  the  summer  floods,  and  not  my  bones. 

But  rise,  and  be  not  wroth  ;  not  wroth  am  I ; 

No,  when  I  see  thee,  wrath  forsakes  my  soul. 

Thou  say'st,  thou  art  not  Rustum  :  be  it  so. 

Who  art  thou  then,  that  canst  so  touch  my  soul  ? 

Boy  as  I  am,  I  have  seen  battles  too ; 

Have  waded  foremost  in  their  bloody  waves. 

And  heard  their  hollow  roar  of  dying  men  ; 

But  never  was  my  heart  thus  touch'd  before. 

Are  they  from  Heaven,  these  softenings  of  the  heart  ? 

O  thou  old  warrior,  let  us  yield  to  Heaven  ! 

Come,  plant  we  here  in  earth  our  angry  spears, 

And  make  a  truce,  and  sit  upon  this  sand. 

And  pledge  each  other  in  red  wine,  like  friends. 

And  thou  shalt  talk  to  me  of  Rustum's  deeds. 

There  are  enough  foes  in  the  Persian  host 

Whom  I  may  meet,  and  strike,  and  feel  no  pang ; 

Champions  enough  Afrasiab  has,  whom  thou 

Mayst  fight ;  fight  them,  when  they  confront  thy  spear. 

But  oh,  let  there  be  peace  'twixt  thee  and  me  !  " 

He  ceas'd  :  but  while  he  spake,  Rustum  had  risen. 
And  stood  erect,  trembling  with  rage :  his  club 
He  left  to  lie,  but  had  regain' d  his  spear. 
Whose  fiery  point  now  in  his  mail'd  right-hand 
Blaz'd  bright  and  baleful,  like  that  autumn  Star, 
The  baleful  sign  of  fevers  :  dust  had  soil'd 
His  stately  crest,  and  dimm'd  his  glittering  arms. 
His  breast  heav'd;  his  lips  foam'd  ;  and.  twice  his  voice 
Was  chok'd  with  rage :  at  last  these  words  broke  way :  — 


SOHKAB   AND    EUSTITM.  47 

"  Girl !  nimble  with  thy  feet,  not  with  thy  hands  ! 
Curl'd  minion,  dancer,  coiner  of  sweet  words  ! 
Fight ;  let  me  hear  thy  hateful  voice  no  more  ! 
Thou  art  not  in  Afrasiab's  gardens  now 
With  Tartar  girls,  with  whom  thou  art  wont  to  dance ; 
But  on  the  Oxus  sands,  and  in  the  dance 
Of  battle,  and  with  me,  who  make  no  play 
Of  war  :  I  fight  it  out,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Speak  not  to  me  of  truce,  and  pledge,  and  wine ! 
Remember  all  thy  valor  :  try  thy  feints 
And  cunning :  all  the  pity  I  had  is  gone  : 
Because  thou  hast  sham'd  me  before  both  the  hosts 
With  thy  light  skipping  tricks,  and  thy  girl's  wiles." 

He  spoke  ;  and  Sohrab  kindled  at  his  taunts. 
And  he  too  drew  his  sword  :  at  once  they  rush'd 
Together,  as  two  eagles  on  one  prey 
Come  rushing  down  together  from  the  clouds. 
One  from  the  east,  one  from  the  west :  their  shields 
Dash'd  with  a  clang  together,  and  a  din 
Rose,  such  as  that  the  sinewy  woodcutters 
Make  often  in  the  forest's  heart  at  morn. 
Of  hewing  axes,  crashing  trees  :  such  blows 
Rustum  and  Sohrab  on  each  other  hail'd. 
And  you  would  say  that  sun  and  stars  took  part 
In  that  unnatural  conflict ;  for  a  cloud 
Grew  suddenly  in  Heaven,  and  dark'd  the  sun 
Over  the  fighters'  heads  ;  and  a  wind  rose 
Under  their  feet,  and  moaning  swept  the  plain, 
And  in  a  sandy  whirlwind  wrapp'd  the  pair. 


48  SOHRAB   AND    KUSTUM. 

In  gloom  they  twain  were  wrapp'd,  and  they  alone ; 

For  both  the  on-looking  hosts  on  either  hand 

Stood  in  broad  daylight,  and  the  sky  was  pure, 

And  the  sun  sparkled  on  the  Oxus  stream. 

But  in  the  gloom  they  fought,  with  bloodshot  eyes 

And  laboring  breath  ;  first  Rustum  struck  the  shield 

Which  Sohrab  held  stiff  out :  the  steel-spik'd  spear 

Rent  the  tough  plates,  but  fail'd  to  reach  the  skin, 

And  Rustum  pluck' d  it  back  with  angry  groan. 

Then  Sohrab  with  his  sword  smote  Rustum' s  helm, 

Nor  clove  its  steel  quite  through  ;  but  all  the  crest 

He  shore  away,  and  that  proud  horsehair  plume. 

Never  till  now  defil'd,  sunk  to  the  dust ; 

And  Rustum  bow'd  his  head  ;  but  then  the  gloom 

Grew  blacker :  thunder  rumbled  in  the  air. 

And  lightnings  rent  the  cloud  ;  and  Ruksh,  the  horse, 

Who  stood  at  hand,  utter'd  a  dreadful  cry  : 

No  horse's  cry  was  that,  most  like  the  roar 

Of  some  pain'd  desert  lion,  who  all  day 

Has  trail' d  the  hunter's  javelin  in  his  side, 

And  comes  at  night  to  die  upon  the  sand :  — 

The  two  hosts  heard  that  cry,  and  quak'd  for  fear, 

And  Oxus  curdled  as  it  cross'd  his  stream. 

But  Sohrab  heard,  and  quail'd  not,  but  rush'd  on. 

And  struck  again ;  and  again  Rustum  bow'd 

His  head ;  but  this  time  all  the  blade,  like  glass, 

Sprang  in  a  thousand  shivers  on  the  helm. 

And  in  his  hand  the  hilt  remain' d  alone. 

Then  Rustum  rais'd  his  head :  his  dreadful  eyes 


SOHEAB    AND    EUSTUM.  49 

Glar'd,  and  lie  shook  on  high  his  menacing  spear, 
And  shouted,  Rustum  !     Sohrab  heard  that  shout, 
And  shrank  amaz'd  :  back  he  recoil' d  one  step. 
And  scann'd  with  blinking  eyes  the  advancing  Form  : 
And  then  he  stood  bewilder' d  ;  and  he  dropp'd 
His  covering  shield,  and  the  spear  pierc'd  his  side. 
He  reel'd,  and  staggering  back,  sunk  to  the  ground. 
And  then  the  gloom  dispers'd,  and  the  wind  fell, 
And  the  bright  sun  broke  forth,  and  melted  all 
The  cloud ;  the  two  armies  saw  the  pair  ; 
Saw  Rustum  standing,  safe  upon  his  feet. 
And  Sohrab,  wounded,  on  the  bloody  sand. 

Then,  with  a  bitter  smile,  Rustum  began  :  — 
"  Sohrab,  thou  thoughtest  in  thy  mind  to  kill 
A  Persian  lord  this  day,  and  strip  his  corpse. 
And  bear  thy  trophies  to  Afrasiab's  tent. 
Or  else  that  the  great  Rustum  would  come  down 
Himself  to  fight,  and  that  thy  wiles  would  move 
His  heart  to  take  a  gift,  and  let  thee  go. 
And  then  that  all  the  Tartar  host  would  praise 
Thy  courage  or  thy  craft,  and  spread  thy  fame. 
To  glad  thy  father  in  his  weak  old  age. 
Fool !  thou  art  slain,  and  by  an  unknown  man  ! 
Dearer  to  the  red  jackals  shalt  thou  be, 
Than  to  thy  friends,  and  to  thy  father  old." 

And,  with  a  fearless  mien,  Sohrab  replied :  — 
"  Unknown  thou  art ;  yet  thy  fierce  vaunt  is  vain. 
Thou  dost  not  slay  me,  proud  and  boastful  man ! 
No  !  Rustum  slays  me,  and  this  filial  heart. 


50  SOHEAB    AND    EI7STTJM. 

For  were  I  match' d  with  ten  such  men  as  thou, 
And  I  were  he  who  till  to-day  I  was, 
They  should  be  lying  here,  I  standing  there. 
But  that  beloved  name  unnerv'd  my  arm  — 
That  name,  and  something,  I  confess,  in  thee, 
Which  troubles  all  my  heart,  and  made  my  shield 
Fall ;  and  thy  spear  transfix'd  an  unarm'd  foe. 
And  now  thou  boastest,  and  insult'st  my  fate. 
But  hear  thou  this,  fierce  Man,  tremble  to  hear  ! 
The  mighty  Rustum  shall  avenge  my  death ! 
My  father,  whom  I  seek  through  all  the  world. 
He  shall  avenge  my  death,  and  punish  thee  ! " 

As  when  some  hunter  in  the  spring  hath  found 
A  breeding  eagle  sitting  on  her  nest. 
Upon  the  craggy  isle  of  a  hill  lake. 
And  pierc'd  her  with  an  arrow  as  she  rose, 
And  follow' d  her  to  find  her  where  she  fell 
Far  ofi" ;  —  anon  her  mate  comes  winging  back 
From  hunting,  and  a  great  way  off  descries 
His  huddling  young  left  sole  ;  at  that,  he  checks 
His  pinion,  and  with  short  uneasy  sweeps 
Circles  above  his  eyry,  with  loud  screams 
Chiding  his  mate  back  to  her  nest ;  but  she 
Lies  dying,  with  the  arrow  in  her  side, 
In  some  far  stony  gorge  out  of  his  ken, 
A  heap  of  fluttering  feathers  :  never  more 
Shall  the  lake  glass  her,  flying  over  it ; 
Never  the  black  and  dripping  precipices 
Echo  her  stormy  scream  as  she  sails  by  ;  — 


SOHRAB   AND    RirSTTJM.  51 

As  that  poor  bird  flies  home,  nor  knows  his  loss  — 
So  Rustum  knew  not  his  own  loss,  but  stood 
Over  his  dying  son,  and  knew  him  not. 

But  with  a  cold,  incredulous  voice,  he  said :  — 
"  What  prate  is  this  of  fathers  and  revenge  ? 
The  mighty  Rustum  never  had  a  son." 

And,  with  a  failing  voice,  Sohrab  replied  :  — 
"  Ah  yes,  he  had  !  and  that  lost  son  am  I. 
Surely  the  news  will  one  day  reach  his  ear, 
Reach  Rustum,  where  he  sits,  and  tarries  long, 
Somewhere,  I  know  not  where,  but  far  from  here  ; 
And  pierce  him  like  a  stab,  and  make  him  leap 
To  arms,  and  cry  for  vengeance  upon  thee. 
Fierce  Man,  bethink  thee,  for  an  only  son ! 
What  will  that  grief,  what  will  that  vengeance  be ! 
Oh,  could  I  live,  till  I  that  grief  had  seen ! 
Yet  him  I  pity  not  so  much,  but  her, 
My  mother,  who  in  Ader-baijan  dwells 
With  that  old  King,  her  father,  who  grows  gray 
With  age,  who  rules  over  the  valiant  Koords. 
Her  most  I  pity,  who  no  more  will  see 
Sohrab  returning  from  the  Tartar  camp. 
With  spoils  and  honor,  when  the  war  is  done^ 
But  a  dark  rumor  will  be  bruited  up, 
From  tribe  to  tribe,  until  it  reach  her  ear  ; 
And  then  will  that  defenceless  woman  learn 
That  Sohrab  will  rejoice  her  sight  no  more  ; 
But  that  in  battle  with  a  nameless  foe, 
By  the  far  distant  Oxus,  he  is  slain." 


52  SOHRAB    AND    KUSTUM. 

He  spoke  ;  and  as  he  ceas'd  lie  wept  aloud, 
Thinking  of  her  he  left,  and  his  own  death. 
He  spoke  ;  but  Rustum  listen' d,  plung'd  in  thought. 
Nor  did  he  yet  believe  it  was  his  son 
Who  spoke,  although  he  call'd  back  names  he  knew; 
For  he  had  had  sure  tidings  that  the  babe, 
Which  was  in  Ader-baijan  born  to  him, 
Had  been  a  puny  girl,  no  boy  at  all : 
So  that  sad  mother  sent  him  word,  for  fear 
Rustum  should  take  the  boy,  to  train  in  arms  ; 
And  so  he  deem'd  that  either  Sohrab  took. 
By  a  false  boast,  the  style  of  Rustum's  son ; 
Or  that  men  gave  it  him,  to  swell  his  fame. 
So  deem'd  he  ;  yet  he  listen'd,  plung'd  in  thought ; 
And  his  soul  set  to  grief,  as  the  vast  tide 
Of  the  bright  rocking  Ocean  sets  to  shore 
At  the  full  moon  :  tears  gathered  in  his  eyes  ; 
For  he  remember'd  his  own  early  youth, 
And  all  its  bounding  rapture  ;  as,  at  dawn. 
The  Shepherd  from  his  mountain  lodge  descries 
A  far  bright  City,  smitten  by  the  sun, 
Through  many  rolling  clouds  ;  —  so  Rustum  saw 
His  youth  ;  saw  Sohrab' s  mother,  in  her  bloom  ; 
And  that  old  King,  her  father,  who  lov'd  well 
His  wandering  guest,  and  gave  him  his  fair  child 
With  joy  ;  and  all  the  pleasant  life  they  led, 
They  three,  in  that  long-distant  summer-time  — 
The  castle,  and  the  dewy  woods,  and  hunt 
And  hound,  and  morn  on  those  delightful  hills 


SOHRAB    AND    ETJSTtTM.  53 

In  Ader-baijan.     And  lie  saw  that  Youth, 

Of  age  and  looks  to  be  his  own  dear  son, 

Piteous  and  lovely,  lying  on  the  sand. 

Like  some  rich  hyacinth,  which  by  the  scythe 

Of  an  unskilful  gardener  has  been  cut, 

Mo^\ing  the  garden  grass-plots  near  its  bed, 

And  lies,  a  fragrant  tower  of  purple  bloom, 

On  the  mown,  dying  grass  ;  —  so  Sohrab  lay, 

Lovely  in  death,  upon  the  common  sand. 

And  Rustum  gaz'd  on  him  with  grief,  and  said  :  — 

"  O  Sohrab,  thou  indeed  art  such  a  son 
Whom  Rustum,  wert  thou  his,  might  well  have  lov'd ! 
Yet  here  thou  errest,  Sohrab,  or  else  men 
Have  told  thee  false  ;  —  thou  art  not  Rustum's  son. 
For  Rustum  had  no  son  :  one  child  he  had  — 
But  one  —  a  girl :  who  with  her  mother  now 
Plies  some  light  female  task,  nor  dreams  of  us  — 
Of  us  she  dreams  not,  nor  of  wounds,  nor  war." 

But  Sohrab  answer'd  him  in  wrath  ;  for  now 
The  anguish  of  the  deep-fix' d  spear  grew  fierce, 
And  he  desired  to  draw  forth  the  steel, 
And  let  the  blood  flow  free,  and  so  to  die  ; 
But  first  he  would  convince  his  stubborn  foe  — 
And,  rising  sternly  on  one  arm,  he  said  :  — 

"  Man,  who  art  thou  who  does  deny  my  words  ? 
Truth  sits  upon  the  lips  of  dying  men. 
And  Falsehood,  while  I  liv'd,  was  far  from  mine. 
I  tell  thee,  prick' d  upon  this  arm  I  bear 
That  seal  which  Rustum  to  my  mother  gave. 


54  SOHEAB   AND    EUSTUM. 

That  slie  might  prick  it  on  the  babe  she  bore." 

He  spoke  :  and  all  the  blood  left  E-ustum's  cheeks ; 
And  his  knees  totter'd,  and  he  smote  his  hand 
Against  his  breast,  his  heavy  mailed  hand, 
That  the  hard  iron  corslet  clank' d  aloud  : 
And  to  his  heart  he  press' d  the  other  hand, 
And  in  a  hollow  voice  he  spake,  and  said  :  — 

"  Sohrab,  that  were  a  proof  which  could  not  lie. 
If  thou  shew  this,  then  art  thou  Rustum's  son." 

Then,  with  weak  hasty  fingers,  Sohrab  loos'd 
His  belt,  and  near  the  shoulder  bar'd  his  arm, 
And  shew'd  a  sign  in  faint  vermilion  points 
Prick' d  :  as  a  cunning  workman,  in  Pekin, 
Pricks  with  vermilion  some  clear  porcelain  vase, 
An  emperor's  gift  —  at  early  morn  he  paints, 
And  all  day  long,  and,  when  night  comes,  the  lamp 
Lights  up  his  studious  forehead  and  thin  hands  :  — 
So  delicately  prick' d  the  sign  appear' d 
On  Sohrab's  arm,  the  sign  of  Rustum's  seal. 
It  was  that  Griffin,  which  of  old  rear'd  Zal, 
Rustum's  great  father,  whom  they  left  to  die, 
A  helpless  babe,  among  the  mountain  rocks. 
Him  that  kind  Creature  found,  and  rear'd,  and  lov'd  — 
Then  Rustum  took  it  for  his  glorious  sign. 
And  Sohrab  bar'd  that  figure  on  his  arm, 
And  himself  scann'd  it  long  with  mournful  eyes, 
And  then  he  touch' d  it  with  his  hand  and  said  :  — 

"  How  say'st  thou  ?     Is  that  sign  the  proper  sign 
Of  Rustum's  son,  or  of  some  other  man's  ?  " 


SOHKAB    AND    KITSTITM.  55 

He  spoke  :  but  Rustum  gaz'd,  and  gaz'd,  and  stood 
Speechless  ;  and  then  he  utter'd  one  sharp  cry  — 

0  Boy  —  thy  Father  I  —  and  his  voice  chok'd  there. 
And  then  a  dark  cloud  pass'd  before  his  eyes, 

And  his  head  swam,  and  he  sunk  down  to  earth. 

But  Sohrab  crawl' d  to  where  he  lay,  and  cast 

His  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kiss'd  his  lips, 

And  with  fond  faltering  fingers  strok'd  his  cheeks, 

Trying  to  call  him  back  to  life :  and  life 

Came  back  to  Rustum,  and  he  op'd  his  eyes, 

And  they  stood  wide  with  horror  ;  and  he  seiz'd 

In  both  his  hands  the  dust  which  lay  around. 

And  threw  it  on  his  ^ead,  and  smirch' d  his  hair. 

His  hair,  and  face,  and  beard,  and  glittering  arms  : 

And  strong  convulsive  groanings  shook  his  breast. 

And  his  sobs  chok'd  him ;  and  he  clutch' d  his  sword, 

To  draw  it,  and  forever  let  life  out. 

But  Sohrab  saw  his  thought,  and  held  his  hands, 

And  with  a  soothing  voice  he  spoke,  and  said  :  — 

*'  Father,  forbear  :  for  I  but  meet  to-day 
The  doom  that  at  my  birth  was  written  down 
In  Heaven,  and  thou  art  Heaven's  unconscious  hand. 
Surely  my  heart  cried  out  that  it  was  thou. 
When  first  I  saw  thee ;  and  thy  heart  spoke  too, 

1  know  it :  but  Fate  trod  those  promptings  down 
Under  its  iron  heel ;  Fate,  Fate  engag'd 

The  strife,  and  hurl'd  me  on  my  father's  spear. 
But  let  us  speak  no  more  of  this  :  I  find 
My  father ;  let  me  feel  that  I  have  found. 


56  SOHEAB    AKD    KUSTUM. 

Come,  sit  beside  me  on  this  sand,  and  take 

My  head  betwixt  thy  hands,  and  kiss  my  cheeks, 

And  wash  them  with  thy  tears,  and  say,  '  My  Son ! ' 

Quick  !  quick  !  for  numbered  are  my  sands  of  life. 

And  swift ;  for  like  the  lightning  to  this  field 

I  came,  and  like  the  wind  I  go  away  — 

Sudden,  and  swift,  and  like  a  passing  wind. 

But  it  was  writ  in  Heaven  that  this  should  be." 

So  said  he  :  and  his  voice  releas'd  the  heart 
Of  Rustum,  and  his  tears  broke  forth  ;  he  cast 
His  arms  around  his  son's  neck,  and  wept  aloud, 
And  kiss'd  him.    And  awe  fell  on  both  the  hosts 
When  they  saw  Rustum's  grief:  and  Ruksh,  the  horse, 
With  his  head  bowing  to  the  ground,  and  mane 
Sweeping  the  dust,  came  near,  and  in  mute  woe 
First  to  the  one  then  to  the  other  mov'd 
His  head,  as  if  inquiring  what  their  grief 
Might  mean  ;  and  from  his  dark,  compassionate  eyes, 
The  big  warm  tears  roll'd  down,  and  cak'd  the  sand. 
But  Rustum  chid  him  with  stern  voice,  and  said :  — 

"  Ruksh,  now  thou  grievest ;  but,  O  Ruksh,  thy  feet 
Should  then  have  rotted  on  thy  nimble  joints, 
When  first  they  bore  thy  Master  to  this  field." 

But  Sohrab  look'd  upon  the  horse  and  said:  — 
"  Is  this  then  Ruksh  ?     How  often,  in  past  days, 
My  mother  told  me  of  thee,  thou  brave  Steed  ! 
My  terrible  father's  terrible  horse  ;  and  said, 
That  I  should  one  day  find  thy  lord  and  thee. 
Come,  let  me  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  mane. 


SOHRAB   AND    BUSTUM.  57 

O  Ruksh,  thou  art  more  fortunate  than  I ; 

For  thou  hast  gone  where  I  shall  never  go, 

And  snufF'd  the  breezes  of  my  father's  home. 

And  thou  hast  trod  the  sands  of  Seistan, 

And  seen  the  River  of  Helmund,  and  the  Lake 

Of  Zirrah  ;  and  the  aged  Zal  himself 

Has  often  strok'd  thy  neck,  and  given  thee  food, 

Corn  in  a  golden  platter  soak'd  with  wine. 

And  said  —  '  O  Ruksh  !  bear  Rustum  well ! '  — but  I 

Have  never  known  my  grandsire's  furrow' d  face, 

Nor  seen  his  lofty  house  in  Seistan, 

Nor  slak'd  my  thirst  at  the  clear  Helmund  stream : 

But  lodg'd  among  my  father's  foes,  and  seen 

Afrasiab's  cities  only,  Samarcand, 

Bokhara,  and  lone  Khiva  in  the  waste. 

And  the  black  Toorkmun  tents ;  and  only  drunk 

The  desert  rivers,  Moorghab  and  Tejend, 

Kohik,  and  where  the  Kalmuks  feed  their  sheep. 

The  northern  Sir  ;  and  this  great  Oxus  stream  — 

The  yellow  Oxus,  by  whose  brink  I  die." 

And,  with  a  heavy  groan,  Rustum  replied  :  — 
"  Oh  that  its  waves  were  flowing  over  me  ! 
Oh  that  I  saw  its  grains  of  yellow  silt 
Roll  tumbling  in  the  current  o'er  my  head  !  " 

And,  with  a  grave,  mild  voice,  Sohrab  replied  — 
"  Desire  not  that,  my  father  ;  thou  must  live. 
For  some  are  born  to  do  great  deeds,  and  live. 
As  some  are  born  to  be  obscur'd,  and  die. 
Do  thou  the  deeds  I  die  too  young  to  do, 
4 


58  SOHRAB    AND    KUSTTJM. 

And  reap  a  second  glory  in  thine  age. 

Thou  art  my  father,  and  thy  gain  is  mine. 

But  come  :  thou  seest  this  great  host  of  men 

Which  follow  me ;  I  pray  thee,  slay  not  these  : 

Let  me  entreat  for  them  :  what  have  they  done  ? 

They  follow' d  me,  my  hope,  my  fame,  my  star. 

Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 

Biit  me  thou  must  bear  hence,  not  send  with  them, 

But  carry  me  with  thee  to  Seistan, 

And  place  me  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  me, 

Thou,  and  the  snow-hair'd  Zal,  and  all  thy  friends. 

And  thou  must  lay  me  in  that  lovely  earth, 

And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  my  bones, 

And  plant  a  far  seen  pillar  over  all : 

That  so  the  passing  horseman  on  the  waste 

May  see  my  tomb  a  great  way  off,  and  say  — 

Sohrah,  the  mighty  Rustum's  son,  lies  there. 

Whom  his  great  father  did  in  ignorance  kill  — 

And  I  be  not  forgotten  in  my  grave." 

And,  with  a  mournful  voice,  Bustum  replied  :  — 
"  Fear  not ;  as  thou  hast  said,  Sohrab,  my  son, 
So  shall  it  be  :  for  I  will  burn  my  tents. 
And  quit  the  host,  and  bear  thee  hence  with  me, 
And  carry  thee  away  to  Seistan, 
And  place  thee  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  thee. 
With  the  snow-headed  Zal,  and  all  my  friends. 
And  I  will  lay  thee  in  that  lovely  earth, 
And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  thy  bones. 
And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all : 


SOHRAB    AND    RUSTTJM.  59 

And  men  shall  not  forget  thee  in  thy  grave. 
And  I  will  spare  thy  host :  yea,  let  them  go  : 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 
What  should  I  do  with  slaying  any  more  ? 
For  would  that  all  whom  I  have  ever  slain 
Might  be  once  more  alive ;  my  bitterest  foes, 
And  they  who  were  call'd  champions  in  their  time, 
And  through  whose  death  I  won  that  fame  I  have  ; 
And  I  were  nothing  but  a  common  man, 
A  poor,  mean  soldier,  and  without  renown ; 
So  thou  mightest  live  too,  my  Son,  my  Son  ! 
Or  rather  would  that  I,  even  I  myself. 
Might  now  be  lying  on  this  bloody  sand, 
Near  death,  and  by  an  ignorant  stroke  of  thine. 
Not  thou  of  mine  ;  and  I  might  die,  not  thou  ; 
And  I,  not  thou,  be  borne  to  Seistan ; 
And  Zal  might  weep  above  my  grave,  not  thine  ; 
And  say  —  O  son,  I  weep  thee  not  too  sore, 
For  willingly,  I  know,  thou  met'st  thine  end.  — 
But  now  in  blood  and  battles  was  my  youth. 
And  full  of  blood  and  battles  is  my  age  ; 
And  I  shall  never  end  this  life  of  blood." 

Then,  at  the  point  of  death,  Sohrab  replied  :  — 
"  A  life  of  blood  indeed,  thou  dreadful  Man  \ 
But  thou  shalt  yet  have  peace  ;  only  not  now  ; 
Not  yet :  but  thou  shalt  have  it  on  that  day. 
When  thou  shalt  sail  in  a  high-masted  Ship, 
Thou  and  the  other  peers  of  Kai-Khosroo, 
Returning  home  over  the  salt  blue  sea. 


60  SOHRAB    AND    RtTSTUM. 

From  laying  thy  dear  Master  in  his  grave."  " 

And  Rustum  gaz'd  on  Sohrab's  face,  and  said  :  — 
"  Soon  be  that  day,  my  Son,  and  that  deep  sea  ! 
Till  then,  if  Fate  so  wills,  let  me  endure." 

He  spoke  ;  and  Sohrab  smil'd  on  him,  and  took 
The  spear,  and  drew  it  from  his  side,  and  eas'd 
His  wound's  imperious  anguish  :  but  the  blood 
Came  welling  from  the  open  gash,  and  life 
Flow'd  with  the  stream  :  all  down  his  cold  white  side 
The  crimson  torrent  pour'd,  dim  now,  and  soiFd, 
Like  the  soil'd  tissue  of  white  violets 
Left,  freshly  gather' d,  on  their  native  baiik. 
By  romping  children,  whom  their  nurses  call 
From  the  hot  fields  at  noon :  his  head  droop' d  low. 
His  limbs  grew  slack ;  motionless,  white,  he  lay  — 
White,  with  eyes  clos'd ;  only  when  heavy  gasps, 
Deep,  heavy  gasps,  quivering  through  all  his  frame, 
Convuls'd  him  back  to  life,  he  open'd  them, 
And  fix'd  them  feebly  on  his  father's  face  : 
Till  now  all  strength  was  ebb'd,  and  from  his  limbs 
Unwillingly  the  spirit  fled  away, 
Regretting  the  warm  mansion  which  it  left. 
And  youth  and  bloom,  and  this  delightful  world. 

So,  on  the  bloody  sand,  Sohrab  lay  dead. 
And  the  great  Rustum  drew  his  horseman's  cloak 
Down  o'er  his  face,  and  sate  by  his  dead  son. 
As  those  black  granite  pillars,  once  high-rear'd 
By  Jemshid  in  Persepolis,  to  bear 
His  house,  now,  mid  their  broken  flights  of  steps. 


SOHKAB    AND    KIJSTUM.  61 

Lie- prone,  enormous,  down  the  mountain  side  — 
So  in  the  sand  lay  Rustum  by  his  son. 

And  night  came  down  over  the  solemn  waste. 
And  the  two  gazing  hosts,  and  that  sole  pair, 
And  darken' d  all ;  and  a  cold  fog,  with  night. 
Crept  from  the  Oxus.     Soon  a  hum  arose. 
As  of  a  great  assembly  loos' d,  and  fires 
Began  to  twinkle  through  the  fog  :  for  now 
Both  armies  mov'd  to  camp,  and  took  their  meal : 
The  Persians  took  it  on  ♦the  open  sands 
Southward  ;  the  Tartars  by  the  river  marge  : 
And  Rustum  and  his  son  were  left  alone. 

But  the  majestic  river  floated  on. 
Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low  land, 
Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  mov'd. 
Rejoicing,  through  the  hush'd  Chorasmian  waste, 
Under  the  solitary  moon  :  he  flow'd 
Right  for  the  Polar  Star,  past  Orgunje, 
Brimming,  and  bright,  and  large  :  then  sands  begin 
To  hem  his  watery  march,  and  dam  his  streams, 
And  split  his  currents  ;  that  for  many  a  league 
The  shorn  and  parcell'd  Oxus  strains  along 
Through  beds  of  sand  and  matted  rushy  isles  — 
Oxus,  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had 
In  his  high  mountain  cradle  in  Pamere, 
A  foil'd  circuitous  wanderer :  —  till  at  last 
The  long'd-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard,  and  wide 
His  luminous  home  of  waters  opens,  bright 
And  tranquil,  from  whose  floor  the  new-bath'd  stars 
Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 


"  After  Chephren,  Mycerinus,  son  of  Cheops,  reigned  over 
Egypt.  He  abhorred  his  father's  courses,  and  judged  his  subjects 
more  justly  than  any  of  their  kings  had  done.  —  To  him  there 
came  an  oracle  from  the  city  of  Buto,  to  the  effect,  that  he  was  to 
live  but  six  years  longer,  and  to  die  in  the  seventh  year  from  that 
time."  —  Herodotus. 


MYCERINUS 


"  Not  by  the  justice  that  my  father  spurn' d, 

Not  for  the  thousands  whom  my  father  slew, 

Altars  unfed  and  temples  overturn' d 

Cold  hearts  and  thankless  tongues,  where  thanks  were 

due ; 
Fell  this  late  voice  from  lips  that  cannot  lie, 
Stern  sentence  of  the  Powers  of  Destiny. 

I  will  unfold  my  sentence  and  my  crime. 
My  cr^me,  that,  rapt  in  reverential  awe, 
I  sate  obedient,  in  the  fiery  prime 
Of  youth,  self-govern' d,  at  the  feet  of  Law ; 
Ennobling  this  dull  pomp,  the  life  of  kings, 
By  contemplation  of  diviner  things. 

My  father  lov'd  injustice,  and  liv'd  long  ; 
Crown'd  with  gray  hairs  he  died,  and  full  of  sway. 
I  lov'd  the  good  he  scorn' d,  and  hated  wrong  : 
The  Gods  declare  my  recompense  to-day. 
I  look'd  for  life  more  lasting,  rule  more  high ; 
And  when  six  years  are  measur'd,  lo,  I  die ! 


64  MYCERINUS. 

Yet  surely,  0  my  people,  did  I  deem 
Man's  justice  from  tlie  all-just  Gods  was  given 
A  light  that  from  some  upper  fount  did  beam. 
Some  better  archetype,  whose  seat  was  heaven  : 
A  light  that,  shining  from  the  blest  abodes. 
Did  shadow  somewhat  of  the  life  of  Gods. 


Mere  phantoms  of  man's  self- tormenting  heart, 
Which  on  the  sweets  that  woo  it  dares  not  feed : 
Vain  dreams,  that  quench  our  pleasures,  then  depart. 
When  the  dup'd  soul,  s elf-master' d,  claims  its  meed  : 
When,  on  the  strenuous  just  man.  Heaven  bestows, 
Crown  of  his  struggling  life,  an  unjust  close. 

Seems  it  so  light  a  thing  then,  austere  Powers, 
To  spurn  man's  common  lure,  life's  pleasant  things  ? 
Seems  there  no  joy  in  dances  crown' d  with  flowers, 
Love,  free  to  range,  and  regal  banquettings  ? 
Bend  ye  on  these,  indeed,  an  unmov'd  eye, 
Not  Gods  but  ghosts,  in  frozen  apathy  ? 

Or  is  it  that  some  Power,  too  wise,  too  strong. 
Even  for  yourselves  to  conquer  or  beguile. 
Whirls  earth,  and  heaven,  and  men,  and  gods  along, 
Like  the  broad  rushing  of  the  insurged  Nile  ? 
And  the  great  powers  we  serve,  themselves  may  be 
Slaves  of  a  tyrannous  Necessity  ? 


MYCERINIIS.  65 

Or  in  mid-heaven,  perhaps,  your  golden  cars, 
Where  earthly  voice  climbs  never,  wing  their  flight, 
And  in  wild  hunt,  through  mazy  tracts  of  stars, 
Sweep  in  the  sounding  stillness  of  the  night  ? 
Or  in  deaf  ease,  on  thrones  of  dazzling  sheen, 
Drinking  deep  draughts  of  joy,  ye  dwell  serene  ? 


Oh,  wherefore  cheat  our  youth,  if  thus  it  be, 
Of  one  short  joy,  one  lust,  one  pleasant  dream  ? 
Stringing  vain  words  of  powers  we  cannot  see, 
Blind  divinations  of  a  will  supreme  ; 
Lost  labor  :  when  the  circumambient  gloom 
But  hides,  if  Gods,  Gods  careless  of  our  doom  ? 


The  rest  I  give  to  joy.     Even  while  I  speak 
My  sand  runs  short ;  and  as  yon  star- shot  ray, 
Hemm'd  by  two  banks  of  cloud,  peers  pale  and  weak, 
Now,  as  the  barrier  closes,  dijes  ^way ; 
Even  so  do  past  and  future  intertwine. 
Blotting  this  six  years'  space,  which  yet  is  mine. 

Six  years  —  six  little  years  —  six  drops  of  time  — 
Yet  suns  shall  rise,  and  many  moons  shall  wane, 
And  old  men  die,  and  young  men  pass  their  prime, 
And  languid  Pleasure  fade  and  flower  again  ; 
And  the  dull  Gods  behold,  ere  these  are  flown, 
Revels  more  deep,  joy  keener  than  their  own. 


66  MYCEKINUS. 

Into  the  silence  of  the  groves  and  woods 

I  will  go  forth  ;  but  something  would  I  say  — 

Something  —  yet  what  I  know  not :  for  the  Gods 

The  doom  they  pass  revoke  not,  nor  delay  ; 

And  prayers,  and  gifts,  and  tears,  are  fruitless  all, 

And  the  night  waxes,  and  the  shadows  fall. 

Ye  men  of  Egypt,  ye  have  heard  your  king. 

I  go,  and  I  return  not.     But  the  will 

Of  the  great  Gods  is  plain  ;  and  ye  must  bring 

111  deeds,  ill  passions,  zealous  to  fulfil 

Their  pleasure,  to  their  feet ;  and  reap  their  praise. 

The  praise  of  Gods,  rich  boon  !  and  length  of  days." 

—  So  spake  he,  half  in  anger,  half  in  scorn ; 
And  one  loud  cry  of  grief  and  of  amaze 
Broke  from  his  sorrowing  people  :  so  he  spake  ; 
And  turning,  left  them  there  ;  and  with  brief  pause, 
,Girt  with  a  throng  of  revellers,  bent  his  way 
To  the  cool  region  of  the  groves  he  lov'd. 
There  by  the  river  banks  he  wander' d  on. 
From  palm-grove  on  to  palm-grove,  happy  trees, 
Their  smooth  tops  shining  sunwards,  and  beneath 
Burying  their  unsunn'd  stems  in  grass  and  flowers : 
Where  in  one  dream  the  feverish  time  of  Youth 
Might  fade  in  slumber,  and  the  feet  of  Joy 
Might  wander  all  day  long  and  never  tire  : 
Here  came  the  king,  holding  high  feast  at  morn, 
Rose-crown'd ;  and  ever,  when  the  sun  went  down, 


MYCEKINUS.  67 

A  hundred  lamps  beam'd  in  the  tranquil  gloom, 
From  tree  to  tree,  all  through  the  twinkling  grove, 
Revealing  all  the  tumult  of  the  feast, 
Flush' d  guests,  and  golden  goblets,  foam'd  with  wine  ; 
While  the  deep-burnish' d  foliage  overhead 
Splinter' d  the  silver  arrows  of  the  moon. 

It  may  be  that  sometimes  his  wondering  soul 
From  the  loud  joyful  laughter  of  his  lips 
Might  shrink  half-startled,  like  a  guilty  man 
"Who  wrestles  with  his  dream ;  as  some  pale  Shape, 
Gliding  half  hidden  through  the  dusky  stems, 
Would  thrust  a  hand  before  the  lifted  bowl, 
Whispering,  "A  little  space,  and  thou  art  mine." 
It  may  be  on  that  joyless  feast  his  eye 
Dwelt  with  mere  outward  seeming  ;  he,  within. 
Took  measure  of  his  soul,  and  knew  its  strength, 
And  by  that  silent  knowledge,  day  by  day, 
Was  calm'd,  ennobled,  comforted,  sustain'd. 
It  may  be  ;  but  not  less  his  brow  was  smooth, 
And  his  clear  laugh  fled  ringing  through  the  gloom. 
And  his  mirth  quail' d  not  at  the  mild  reproof 
Sigh'd  out  by  Winter's  sad  tranquillity  ; 
Nor,  pall'd  with  its  own  fulness,  ebb'd  and  died 
In  the  rich  languor  of  long  summer  days  ; 
Nor  wither' d,  when  the  palm-tree  plumes  that  roofd 
With  their  mild  dark  his  grassy  banquet-hall. 
Bent  to  the  cold  winds  of  the  showerless  Spring  ; 
No,  nor  grew  dark  when  Autumn  brought  the  clouds. 

So  six  long  years  he  re  veil' d,  night  and  day  ; 


68  MYCERINUS. 

And  when  the  mirth  wax'd  loudest,  with  dull  sound 
Sometimes  from  the  grove's  centre  echoes  came, 
To  tell  his  wondering  people  of  their  king  ; 
In  the  still  night,  across  the  steaming  flats, 
Mix'd  with  the  murmur  of  the  moving  Nile. 


CADMUS  AND  HARMONIA. 


Fae,  far,  from  here, 
The  Adriatic  breaks  in  a  warm  bay 
Among  the  green  Illyrian  hills  ;  and  there 
The  sunshine  in  the  happy  glens  is  fair, 
And  by  the  sea,  and  in  the  brakes. 
The  grass  is  cool,  the  sea-side  air 
Buoyant  and  fresh,  the  mountain  flowers 
More  virginal  and  sweet  than  ours. 
And  there,  they  say,  two  bright  and  aged  Snakes, 
Who  once  were  Cadmus  and  Harmonia, 
Bask  in  the  glens  or  on  the  warm  sea-shore, 
In  breathless  quiet,  after  all  their  ills. 
Nor  do  they  see  their  country,  nor  the  place 
Where  the  Sphinx  liv'd  among  the  frowning  hills. 
Nor  the  unhappy  palace  of  their  race. 
Nor  Thebes,  nor  the  Ismenus,  any  more. 

There  those  two  live,  far  in  the  Illyrian  brakes. 
They  had  stay'd  long  enough  to  see, 
In  Thebes,  the  billow  of  calamity 
Over  their  own  dear  children  roU'd, 


70  CADMUS   AND    HARMOXIA. 

Curse  upon  curse,  pang  upon  pang, 
For  years,  they  sitting  helpless  in  their  home, 
A  gray  old  man  and  woman  :  yet  of  old 
The  Gods  had  to  their  marriage  come. 
And  at  the  banquet  all  the  Muses  sang. 

Therefore  they  did  not  end  their  days 

In  sight  of  blood  ;  but  were  rapt,  far  away. 

To  where  the  west  wind  plays, 

And  murmurs  of  the  Adriatic  come 

To  those  untrodden  mountain  lawns  :  and  there 

Placed  safely  in  chang'd  forms,  the  Pair 

Wholly  forget  their  first  sad  life,  and  home. 

And  all  that  Theban  woe,  and  stray 

Forever  through  the  glens,  placid  and  dumb. 


PHILOMELA 


Hark  !  ah,  the  Nightingale  ! 

The  tawny-throated  ! 

Hark  !  from  that  moonlit  cedar  what  a  burst ! 

What  triumph  !  hark  —  what  pain ! 

O  Wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore, 

Still,  after  many  years,  in  distant  lands. 

Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewilder' d  brain 

That  wild,  unquench'd,  deep-sunken,  old-world  pain 

Say,  will  it  never  heal  ? 
And  can  this  fragrant  lawn 
With  its  cool  trees,  and  night. 
And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames, 
And  moonshine,  and  the  dew. 
To  thy  rack'd  heart  and  brain 

Afford  no  balm  ? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold 
Here,  through  the  moonlight  on  this  English  grass, 
The  unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian  wild  ? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse 
With  hot  cheeks  and  sear'd  eyes 


72  PHILOMELA. 

The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  Sister's  shame  ? 

Dost  thou  once  more  assay 
Thy  flight,  and  feel  come  over  thee, 
Poor  Fugitive,  the  feathery  change 
Once  more,  and  once  more  seem  to  make  resound 
With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 
Lone  Daulis,  and  the  high  Cephissian  vale  ? 

Listen,  Eugenia  — 
How  thick  the  bursts  come  crowding  through  the  leaves  ! 

Again  —  thou  hearest ! 
Eternal  Passion  ! 
Eternal  Pain ! 


THE  STRAYED  REVELLER. 

The  Portico  of  Circe^s  Palace.     Eveninff. 


A   YOUTH.       CIRCE. 


THE  YOUTH. 


Faster,  faster, 
O  Circe,  Goddess, 
Let  the  wild  thronging  train. 
The  bright  procession 
Of  eddying  forms. 
Sweep  through  my  soul ! 

Thou  standest,  smiling 
Down  on  me  ;  thy  right  arm 
Lean'd  up  against  the  column  there, 

Props  thy  soft  cheek  ; 

5 


74  THE    STRAYED    REVELLEB. 

Thy  left  holds,  hanging  loosely, 
The  deep  cup,  ivy-cinctur'd, 
I  held  but  now. 

Is  it  then  evening 
So  soon  ?     I  see,  the  night  dews. 
Cluster' d  in  thick  beads,  dim 
The  agate  brooch-stones 
On  thy  white  shoulder. 
The  cool  night-wind,  too 
Blows  through  the  portico, 

Stirs  thy  hair.  Goddess, 
Waves  thy  white  robe. 

CIRCE. 

"Whence  art  thou,  sleeper? 

THE    YOUTH. 

When  the  white  dawn  first 
Through  the  rough  fir  planks 
Of  my  hut,  by  the  chestnuts, 
Up  at  the  valley-head, 
Came  breaking.  Goddess, 
,  I  sprang  up,  I  threw  round  me 
My  dappled  fawn- skin  : 
Passing  out,  from  the  wet  turf, 
Where  they  lay,  by  the  hut  door, 
I  snatch'd  up  my  vine-crown,  my  fir-staff". 
All  drench' d  in  dew  : 


THE    STEAYED    KEVELLER.  75 

Came  swift  down  to  join 
The  rout  early  gather' d 
In  the  town,  round  the  temple, 
lacchus'  white  fane 
On  yonder  hill. 

Quick  I  pass'd,  following 
The  wood-cutters'  cart  track 
Down  the  dark  valley  ;  —  I  saw 
On  my  left,  through  the  beeches, 
Thy  palace.  Goddess, 
Smokeless,  empty : 
Trembling,  I  enter' d  ;  beheld 
The  court  all  silent. 
The  lions  sleeping ; 
On  the  altar,  this  bowl. 
I  drank.  Goddess  — 
And  sunk  down  here,  sleeping, 
On  the  steps  of  thy  portico. 


CIRCE. 

Foolish  boy  !     Why  tremblest  thou  ? 
Thou  lovest  it,  then,  my  wine  ? 
Wouldst  more  of  it  ?     See,  how  glows, 
Through  the  delicate  flush' d  marble, 

The  red  creaming  liquor, 

Strown  with  dark  seeds  ! 


76  THE    STRAYED    REVELLEE. 

Drink,  then  !     I  chide  thee  not, 
Deny  thee  not  my  bowl. 
Come,  stretch  forth  thy  hand,  then  —  so. 
Drink,  drink  again ! 


THE  YOUTH. 

Thanks,  gracious  One  ! 
Ah,  the  sweet  fumes  again ! 

More  soft,  ah  me  ! 

More  subtle-winding 

Than  Pan's  flute-music. 

Faint  —  faint  I     Ah  me  ! 
Again  the  sweet  sleep. 


CIKCE. 

Hist !     Thou  —  within  there  ! 

Come  forth,  Ulysses ! 
Art  tired  with  hunting  ? 
While  we  range  the  woodland, 

See  what  the  day  brings. 


TJEYSSES. 

Ever  new  magic ! 
Hast  thou  then  lur'd  hither. 
Wonderful  Goddess,  by  thy  art. 
The  young,  languid-ey'd  Ampelus, 


THE    STRAYED  KEVELLER.  77 

lacclius'  darling  — 
Or  some  youth  belov'd  of  Pan, 

Of  Pan  and  the  Nymphs  ? 
That  he  sits,  bending  downward 
His  white,  delicate  neck 
To  the  ivy- wreath' d  marge 
Of  thy  cup :  —  the  bright,  glancing  vine-leaves 

That  crown  his  hair, 
Falling  forwards,  mingling 
With  the  dark  ivy-plants  ; 
His  fawn-skin,  half  untied, 
Smear' d  with  red  wine-stains  ?     Who  is  he, 

That  he  sits  over  weigh' d 

By  fumes  of  wine  and  sleep, 

So  late,  in  thy  portico  ? 
What  youth.  Goddess,  —  what  guest 

Of  Gods  or  mortals  ? 

CIRCE. 

Hist !  he  wakes  ! 
I  lur'd  him  not  hither,  Ulysses. 
Nay,  ask  him ! 


THE   YOUTH. 

Who  speaks  ?     Ah  !     Who  comes  forth 
To  thy  side.  Goddess,  from  within  ? 

How  shall  I  name  him  ? 
This  spare,  dark-featur'd, 


78  THE    STKAYED    REVELLEK, 

Quick-ey'd  stranger  ? 
Ah. !  and  I  see  too 
His  sailor's  bonnet, 
His  sliort  coat,  travel- tarnish' d, 

With  one  arm  bare.  — 
Art  thou  not  he,  whom  fame 

This  long  time  rumors 
The  favor' d  guest  of  Circe,  brought  by  the  waves  ? 

Art  thou  he,  stranger  ? 

The  wise  Ulysses, 

Laertes'  son? 

ULYSSES. 

I  am  Ulysses. 

And  thou,  too,  sleeper  ? 
Thy  voice  is  sweet. 
It  may  be  thou  hast  follow' d 
Through  the  islands  some  divine  bard. 

By  age  taught  many  things. 

Age  and  the  Muses  ; 

And  heard  him  delighting 

The  chiefs  and  people 
In  the  banquet,  and  learn' d  his  songs, 

Of  Gods  and  Heroes, 

Of  war  and  arts, 

And  peopled  cities 

Inland,  or  built 
By  the  gray  sea.  —  If  so,  then  hail  ! 

I  honor  and  welcome  thee. 


THE    STKAYED     KEVELLEE.  79 


THE    YOUTH. 


The  Gods  are  happy. 
They  turn  on  all  sides 
Their  shining  eyes : 
And  see,  below  them, 
The  Earth,  and  men. 

They  see  Tiresias 
Sitting,  staif  in  hand. 

On  the  warm,  grassy 

Asopus'  bank: 
His  robe  drawn  over 
His  old,  sightless  head  : 

Revolving  inly 

The  doom  of  Thebes. 

They  see  the  Centaurs 
In  the  upper  glens 
Of  Pelion,  in  the  streams. 
Where  red-berried  ashes  fringe 
The  clear-brown  shallow  pools  : 
With  streaming  flanks  and  heads 
Rear'd  proudly,  snuffing 
The  mountain  wind. 

They  see  the  Indian 
Drifting,  knife  in  hand, 
His  frail  boat  moor'd  to 
A  floating  isle  thick  matted 


80  THE    STKAYED    REVELLER. 

With  large-leav'd,  low-creeping  melon-plants, 
And  the  dark  cucumber. 

He  reaps,  and  stows  them. 
Drifting  —  drifting  :  —  round  him, 
Round  his  green  harvest-plot, 
Flow  the  coal  lake  waves : 
The  mountains  ring  them. 

They  see  the  Scythian 
On  the  wide  Stepp,  unharnessing 
His  wheel' d  house  at  noon. 
He  tethers  his  beast  down,  and  makes  his  meal, 

Mares'  milk,  and  bread 
Bak'd  on  the  embers  :  —  all  around 
The  boundless  waving  grass-plains  stretch,  thick-starr'd, 
With  saffron  and  the  yellow  hollyhock 
And  flag-leav'd  iris  flowers. 
Sitting  in  his  cart 
He  makes  his  meal :  before  him,  for  long  miles, 
Alive  with  bright  green  lizards. 
And  the  springing  bustard  fowl, 
The  track,  a  straight  black  line, 
Furrows  the  rich  soil :  here  and  there 
Clusters  of  lonely  mounds 
Topp'd  with  rough-hewn. 
Gray,  rain-blear' d  statues,  overpeer 
The  sunny  Waste. 

They  see  the  Ferry 


THE    STRAYED    REVELLER.  81 

On  the  broad,  clay-laden, 
Lone  Chorasmian  stream  :  thereon 
With  snort  and  strain, 
Two  horses,  strongly  swimming,  tow 
The  ferry-boat,  with  woven  ropes 

To  either  bow 
Firm-harness' d  by  the  mane  :  —  a  Chief, 
With  shout  and  shaken  spear 
Stands  at  the  prow,  and  guides  them :   but  astern. 
The  cowering  Merchants,  in  long  robes. 
Sit  pale  beside  their  wealth 
Of  silk-bales  and  of  balsam-drops, 

Of  gold  and  ivory. 
Of  turquoise-earth  and  amethyst, 

Jasper  and  chalcedony. 
And  milk-barr'd  onyx  stones. 
The  loaded  boat  swings  groaning 
In  the  yellow  eddies. 
The  Gods  behold  them. 

They  see  the  Heroes 

Sitting  in  the  dark  ship 

On  the  foamless,  long-heaving, 

Violet  sea : 
At  sunset  nearing 
The  Happy  Islands. 

These  things,  Ulysses, 
The  wise  Bards  also 


82  THE    STUAYED    KEYELLEK. 

Behold  and  sing. 
But  oh,  what  labor  ! 
O  Prince,  what  pain  ! 

They  too  can  see 
Tiresias  :  —  but  the  Gods, 
Who  give  them  vision, 
Added  this  law : 
That  they  should  bear  too 
His  groping  blindness. 
His  dark  foreboding. 
His  scorn' d  white  hairs. 
Bear  Hera's  anger 
Through  a  life  lengthen' d 
To  seven  agjes. 


They  see  the  Centaurs 
On  Pelion  :  —  then  they  feel. 
They  too,  the  maddening  wine 
Swell  their  large  veins  to  bursting  :  in  wild  pain 

They  feel  the  biting  spears 
Of  the  grim  Lapithae,  and  Theseus,  drive. 
Drive  crashing  through  their  bones  :  they  feel 
High  on  a  jutting  rock  in  the  red  stream 
Alcmena's  dreadful  son 
Ply  his  bow  :  —  such  a  price 
The  Gods  exact  for  song ; 
To  become  what  we  sing. 


THE    STRAYED    REVELLEK.  -83 

They  see  the  Indian 
On  his  mountain  lake  :  —  but  squalls 
Make  their  skiff  reel,  and  worms 
In  the  unkind  spring  have  gnaw'd 
Their  melon-harvest  to  the  heart :  They  see 
The  Scythian  :  —  but  long  frosts 
Parch  them  in  winter-time  on  the  bare  Stepp, 
Till  they  too  fade  like  grass :  they  crawl 
Like  shadows  forth  in  spring. 

They  see  the  Merchants 
On  the  Oxus'  stream  :  —  but  care 
Must  visit  first  them  too,  and  make  them  pale. 

Whether,  through  whirling  sand, 
A  cloud  of  desert  robber-horse  has  burst 
Upon  their  caravan  :  or  greedy  kings, 
In  the  wall'd  cities  the  way  passes  through. 
Crush' d  them  with  tolls  :  or  fever-airs, 
On  some  great  river's  marge. 
Mown  them  down,  far  from  home. 

They  see  the  Heroes 

Near  harbor  :  —  but  they  share 
Their  lives,  and  former  violent  toil,  in  Thebes, 

Seven-gated  Thebes,  or  Troy  : 

Or  where  the  echoing  oars 

Of  Argo,  first, 
Startled  the  unknown  Sea. 


•84  THE    STKAYED    KEYELLEE. 

The  old  Silenus 
Came,  lolling  in  the  sunshine, 
From  the  dewy  forest  coverts. 
This  way,  at  noon. 
Sitting  by  me,  while  his  Fauns 
Down  at  the  water  side 
Sprinkled  and  smooth' d 
His  drooping  garland. 
He  told  me  these  things. 

But  I,  Ulysses, 
Sitting  on  the  warm  steps. 
Looking  over  the  valley. 
All  day  long,  have  seen. 
Without  pain,  without  labor. 
Sometimes  a  wild-haif'd  Msenad  ; 
Sometimes  a  Faun  with  torches  ; 
And  sometimes,  for  a  moment. 
Passing  through  the  dark  stems 
Flowing-rob'd  —  the  belov'd. 
The  desir'd,  the  divine, 

Belov'd  lacchus. 

Ah  cool  night- wind,  tremulous  stars  ! 

Ah  glimmering  water  — 

Fitful  earth-murmur  — 
Dreaming  woods  ! 
Ah  golden-hair' d,  strangely-smiling  Goddess, 


THE    STEAYED    KEVELLEK.  85 

And  thou,  prov'd,  mucli  enduring, 
Wave- toss' d  Wanderer  ! 
Who  can  stand  still  ? 
Ye  fade,  ye  swim,  ye  waver  before  me. 
The  cup  again ! 

Faster,  faster, 
O  Circe,  Goddess, 
Let  the  wild  thronging  train, 
The  bright  procession 
Of  eddying  forms, 
Sweep  through  my  soul  ! 


THEKLA'S  ANSWER. 


{From  Schiller.) 


Wheke  I  am,  thou  ask'st,  and  where  I  wended 
When  my  fleeting  shadow  pass'd  from  thee  ?  — 

Am  I  not  concluded  now,  and  ended  ? 
Have  not  life  and  love  been  granted  me  ? 

Ask,  where  now  those  nightingales  are  singing. 
Who,  of  late  on  the  soft  nights  of  May, 

Set  thine  ears  with  soul-fraught  music  ringing  — 
Only,  while  their  love  liv'd,  lasted  they. 

Find  I  him,  from  whom  I  had  to  sever  ?  — 
Doubt  it  not,  we  met,  and  we  are  one. 

There,  where  what  is  join'd,  is  join'd  for  ever. 
There,  where  tears  are  never  more  to  run. . 

There  thou  too  shalt  live  with  us  together, 
When  thou  too  hast  borne  the  love  we  bore : 

There,  from  sin  deliver' d,  dwells  my  Father, 
Track'd  by  Murder's  bloody  sword  no  more. 


thekla's  answer.  87 

There  he  feels  it  was  no  dream  deceiving 

Lur'd  him  starwards  to  uplift  his  eye  : 
God  doth  match  his  gifts  to  man's  believing ; 

Believe,  and  thou  shalt  find  the  Holy  nigh. 

All  thou  augurest  here  of  lovely  seeming 

There  shall  find  fulfilment  in  its  day : 
Dare,  O  Friend,  be  wandering,  dare  be  dreaming ; 

Lofty  thought  lies  oft  in  childish  play. 


"  In  the  court  of  his  uncle  King  Marc,  the  king  of  Cornwall, 
who  at  this  time  resided  at  the  castle  of  Tyntagil,  Tristram  be- 
came expert  in  all  knightly  exercises.  The  king  of  Ireland,  at 
Tristram's  solicitations,  promised  to  bestow  his  daughter  Iseult  in 
marriage  on  King  Marc.  The  mother  of  Iseult  gave  to  her 
daughter's  confidante  a  philtre,  or  love-portion,  to  be  administered 
on  the  night  of  her  nuptials.  Of  this  beverage  Tristram  and 
Iseult,  on  their  voyage  to  Cornwall,  unfortunately  partook.  Its 
influence,  during  the  remainder  of  their  lives,  regulated  the  affec- 
tions and  destiny  of  the  lovers.  — 

"  After  the  arrival  of  Tristram  and  Iseult  in  Cornwall,  and  the 
nuptials  of  the  latter  with  King  Marc,  a  great  part  of  the  romance 
is  occupied  with  their  contrivances  to  procure  secret  interviews.  — 
Tristram,  being  forced  to  leave  Cornwall  on  account  of  the  dis- 
pleasure of  his  uncle,  repaired  to  Brittany,  where  lived  Iseult  with 
the  White  Hands.  —  He  married  her  —  more  out  of  gratitude  than 
love.  —  Afterwards  he  proceeded  to  the  dominions  of  Arthur,  which 
became  the  theatre  of  unnumbered  exploits. 

*'  Tristram,  subsequent  to  these  events,  returned  to  Brittany, 
and  to  his  long  neglected  wife.  There,  being  wounded  and  sick, 
he  was  soon  reduced  to  the  lowest  ebb.  In  this  situation,  he  dis- 
patched a  confidant  to  the  queen  of  Cornwall,  to  try  if  he  could 
induce  her  to  accompany  him  to  Brittany,"  &c.  —  Dunlop's  His- 
tory of  Fiction. 


TRISTRAM  AND  ISEULT 


I. 

TRISTRAM. 
TRISTKAM. 

Is  she  not  come  ?     The  messenger  was  sure. 
Prop  me  upon  the  pillows  once  again  — 
Raise  me,  my  Page :  this  cannot  long  endure. 
Christ !  what  a  night !  how  the  sleet  whips  the  pane  ! 
What  lights  will  those  out  to  the  northward  be  ? 

THE    PAGE. 

The  lanterns  of  the  fishing-boats  at  sea. 

TRISTEAM. 

Soft  —  who  is  that  stands  by  the  dying  fire  ? 

THE    PAGE. 

Iseult. 

6 


90  TBISTBAM   AND    ISEI7LT. 

TRISTRAM. 

All !  not  the  Iseult  I  desire. 


What  Knight  is  this,  so  weak  and  pale, 

Though  the  locks  are  yet  brown  on  his  noble  head, 

Propt  on  pillows  in  his  bed. 

Gazing  seawards  for  the  light 

Of  some  ship  that  fights  the  gale 

On  this  wild  December  night  ? 

Over  the  sick  man's  feet  is  spread 

A  dark  green  forest  dress. 

A  gold  harp  leans  against  the  bed, 

Ruddy  in  the  fire's  light. 

I  know  him  by  his  harp  of  gold. 
Famous  in  Arthur's  court  of  old  : 
I  know  him  by  his  forest  dress. 

The  peerless  hunter,  harper,  knight  — 
Tristram  of  Lyoness. 

What  Lady  is  this,  whose  silk  attire 
Gleams  so  rich  in  the  light  of  the  fire  ? 
The  ringlets  on  her  shoulders  lying 
In  their  flitting  lustre  vying 
With  the  clasp  of  burnish' d  gold 
Which  her  heavy  robe  doth  hold. 
Her  looks  are  mild,  her  fingers  slight 
As  the  driven  snow  are  white  ; 


TKISTKAM   AND    ISEULT.  91 

And  her  cheeks  are  sunk  and  pale. 

Is  it  that  the  bleak  sea-gale 
Beating  from  the  Atlantic  sea 
On  this  coast  of  Brittany, 
Nips  too  keenly  the  sweet  Flower  ?  — 

Is  it  that  a  deep  fatigue 
Hath  come  on  her,  a  chilly  fear, 
Passing  all  her  youthful  hour 
Spinning  with  her  maidens  here. 
Listlessly  through  the  window  bars 
Gazing  seawards  many  a  league 
From  her  lonely  shore-built  tower, 
While  the  knights  are  at  the  wars  ?  — 

Or,  perhaps,  has  her  young  heart 
Felt  already  some  deeper  smart. 
Of  those  that  in  secret  the  heart-strings  rive. 
Leaving  her  sunk  and  pale,  though  fair  ?  — 

Who  is  this  snow-drop  by  the  sea  ?• 
I  know  her  by  her  mildness  rare. 
Her  snow-white  hands,  her  golden  hair  ; 
I  know  her  by  her  rich  silk  dress, 
And  her  fragile  loveliness. 
The  sweetest  Christian  soul  alive, 

Iseult  of  Brittany. 

Iseult  of  Brittany  ?  —  but  where 

Is  that  other  Iseult  fair. 

That  proud,  first  Iseult,  Cornwall's  queen  ? 

She,  whom  Tristram's  ship  of  yore 


92  TEISTEAM    AND    ISEULT. 

To  Tyntagil  from  Ireland  bore, 

To  Cornwall's  palace,  to  the  side 

Of  King  Marc,  to  be  his  bride  ? 

She  who,  as  they  voyag'd,  quaff'd 

With  Tristram  that  spic'd  magic  draught, 

Which  since  then  forever  rolls 

Through  their  blood,  and  binds  their  souls, 

Working  love,  but  working  teen  ?  — 
There  were  two  Iseults,  who  did  sway 
Each  her  hour  of  Tristram's  day ; 
But  one  possess'd  his  waning  time, 
The  other  his  resplendent  prime. 
Behold  her  here,  the  patient  Flower, 
Who  possess'd  his  darker  hour. 
Iseult  of  the  Snow- White  Hand 

Watches  pale  by  Tristram's  bed.  — 
She  is  here  who  had  his  gloom. 
Where  art  thou  who  hadst  his  bloom  ? 
One  such  kiss  as  those  of  yore 
Might  thy  dying  knight  restore  — 

Does  the  love-draught  work  no  more  ? 
Art  thou  cold,  or  false,  or  dead, 

Iseult  of  Ireland  ? 

Loud  howls  the  wind,  sharp  patters  the  rain. 
And  the  knight  sinks  back  on  his  pillows  again. 
He  is  weak  with  fever  and  pain. 
And  his  spirit  is  not  clear : 
Hark  !  he  mutters  in  his  sleep. 


TRISTEAM    AND    ISEULT.  93 

As  he  wanders  far  from  here, 
Changes  place  and  time  of  year, 
And  his  closed  eye  doth  sweep 
O'er  some  fair  un  win  try  sea. 
Not  this  fierce  Atlantic  deep, 
As  he  mutters  brokenly  — 

tristram:. 

The  calm  sea  shines,  loose  hang  the  vessel's  sails  — 
Before  us  are  the  sweet  green  fields  of  Wales, 
And  overhead  the  cloudless  sky  of  May.  — 
"  Ah,  would  I  were  in  those  green  fields  at  play. 
Not  pent  on  ship-board  this  delicious  day. 
Tristram,  I  pray  thee,  of  thy  courtesy. 
Reach  me  my  golden  cup  that  stands  hy  thee,       ^ 
And  pledge  me  in  it  first  for  courtesy.  —  " 

Ha !  dost  thou  start  ?  are  thy  lips  blanch' d  like  mine  ? 
Child,  'tis  no  water  this,  'tis  poison' d  wine  ! 
Iseult !  .  .  .  . 


Ah,  sweet  angels,  let  him  dream  ! 
Keep  his  eyelids !  let  him  seem 
Not  this  fever-wasted  wight 
Thinn'd  and  pal'd  before  his  time, 
But  the  brilliant  youthful  knight 
In  the  glory  of  his  prime. 
Sitting  in  the  gilded  barge, 


94  THISTRAM    AND    ISEULT. 

At  thy  side,  thou  lovely  charge  ! 
Bending  gaily  o'er  thy  hand, 

Iseult  of  Ireland ! 
And  she  too,  that  princess  fair, 
If  her  bloom  be  now  less  rare. 
Let  her  have  her  youth  ^ain  — 

Let  her  be  as  she  was  then  ! 
Let  her  have  her  proud  dark  eyes, 
And  her  petulant  quick  replies. 
Let  her  sweep  her  dazzling  hand 
With  its  gesture  of  command, 
And  shake  back  her  raven  hair 
"With  the  old  imperious  air. 

As  of  old,  so  let  her  be. 
That  first  Iseult,  princess  bright. 
Chatting  with  her  youthful  knight 
As  he  steers  her  o'er  the  sea. 
Quitting  at  her  father's  will 
The  green  isle  where  she  was  bred. 

And  her  bower  in  Ireland, 
For  the  surge-beat  Cornish  strand, 
Where  the  prince  whom  she  must  wed 
Keeps  his  court  in  Tyntagil, 
Fast  beside  the  sounding  sea. 
And  that  golden  cup  her  mother 
Gave  her,  that  her  future  lord. 
Gave  her,  that  King  Marc  and  she. 
Might  drink  it  on  her  marriage  day, 
And  forever  love  each  other, 


tkistkam:  and  iseult.  95 

Let  her,  as  she  sits  on  board, 
Ah,  sweet  saints,  unwittingly, 
See  it  shine,  and  take  it  up. 
And  to  Tristram  laughing  say  — 
"  Sir  Tristram,  of  thy  courtesy 
Pledge  me  in  my  golden  cup  !  " 
Let  them  drink  it  —  let  their  hands 
Tremble,  and  their  cheeks  be  flame. 
As  they  feel  the  fatal  bands 
Of  a  love  they  dare  not  name, 
With  a  wild  delicious  pain. 

Twine  about  their  hearts  again. 
Let  the  early  summer  be 
Once  more  round  them,  and  the  sea 
Blue,  and  o'er  its  mirror  kind 
Let  the  breath  of  the  May  wind, 
"Wandering  through  their  drooping  sails. 

Die  on  the  green  fields  of  Wales. 
Let  a  dream  like  this  restore 
What  his  eye  must  see  no  more. 

TKISTRAM. 

Chill  blows  the  wind,  the  pleasaunce  walks  are  drear. 

Madcap,  what  jest  was  this,  to  meet  me  here  ? 

Were  feet  like  those  made  for  so  wild  a  way  ? 

The  southern  winter-parlor,  by  my  fay. 

Had  been  the  likeliest  trysting  place  to-day.  — 

*'  Tristram  !  —  nay,  nay  —  thou  must  not  take  my  hand  — 

Tristram  —  sweet  love  —  we  are  hetray'd  —  out-plann'd. 


96  TKISTKAM   AND   ISETJLT. 

Fly — save  thyself —  save  me.     I  dare  not  stay."  — 
One  last  kiss  first !  —  " '  Tis  vain — to  horse — away  ! 


Ah,  sweet  saints,  his  dream  doth  move 

Faster  surely  than  it  should, 

From  the  fever  in  his  blood. 

All  the  spring-time  of  his  love 

Is  already  gone  and  past, 

And  instead  thereof  is  seen 

Its  winter,  which  endureth  still  — 

The  palace  towers  of  Tyntagil, 

The  pleasaunce  walks,  the  weeping  queen. 

The  flying  leaves,  the  straining  blast, 

And  that  long,  wild  kiss  —  their  last. 

And  this  rough  December  night 

And  his  burning  fever  pain 

Mingle  with  his  hurrying  dream 

Till  they  rule  it,  till  he  seem 

The  press' d  fugitive  again. 

The  love-desperate  banish' d  knight 

With  a  fire  in  his  brain 

Flying  o'er  the  stormy  main. 

Whither  does  he  wander  now  ? 
Haply  in  his  dreams  the  wind 
Wafts  him  here,  and  lets  him  find 
The  lovely  Orphan  Child  again 
In  her  castle  by  the  coast, 


TEISTKAM   AKD    ISEULT. 

The  youngest,  fairest  chatelaine, 
That  this  realm  of  France  can  boast, 

Our  Snowdrop  by  the  Atlantic  sea, 
Iseult  of  Brittany. 
And  —  for  through  the  haggard  air, 
The  stain'd  arms,  the  matted  hair 
Of  that  stranger  knight  ill-starr'd, 
There  gleam'd  something  that  recall'd 
The  Tristram  who  in  better  days 
Was  Launcelot's  guest  at  Joyous  Gard  — 
Welcom'd  here,  and  here  install' d, 
Tended  of  his  fever  here. 
Haply  he  seems  again  to  move 
His  young  guardian's  heart  with  love ; 

In  his  exil'd  loneliness, 
In  his  stately  deep  distress. 
Without  a  word,  without  a  tear.  — 

Ah,  'tis  well  he  should  retrace 
His  tranquil  life  in  this  lone  place  ; 
His  gentle  bearing  at  the  side 
Of  his  timid  youthful  bride  ; 
His  long  rambles  by  the  shore 
On  winter  evenings,  when  the  roar 
Of  the  near  waves  came,  sadly  grand, 
Through  the  dark,  up  the  drown' d  sand : 

Or  his  endless  reveries 
In  the  woods,  where  the  gleams  play 
On  the  grass  under  the  trees. 
Passing  the  long  summer's  day 


97 


98  TRISTRAM   AND    ISETJLT. 

Idle  as  a  mossy  stone 
In  the  forest  depths  alone  ; 
The  chase  neglected,  and  his  hound 
'  Couch' d  beside  him  on  the  ground.  — 

Ah,  what  trouble  's  on  his  brow  ? 
Hither  let  him  wander  now, 
Hither,  to  the  quiet  hours 
Pass'd  among  these  heaths  of  ours 
By  the  gray  Atlantic  sea. 

Hours,  if  not  of  ecstasy, 
From  violent  anguish  surely  free. 

TRISTRAM. 

All  red  with  blood  the  whirling  river  flows, 

The  wide  plain  rings,  the  daz'd  air  throbs  with  blows. 

Upon  us  are  the  chivalry  of  Rome  — 

Their  spears  are  down,  their  steeds  are  bath'd  in  foam. 

*'  Up,  Tristram,  up,"  men  cry,  "  thou  moonstruck  knight 

What  foul  fiend  rides  thee  ?     On  into  the  fight !  "  — 

Above  the  din  her  voice  is  in  my  ears  — 
I  see  her  form  glide  through  the  crossing  spears.  — 
Iseult !  .  .  .  . 


Ah,  he  wanders  forth  again  ; 
We  cannot  keep  him  ;  now  as  then 
There's  a  secret  in  his  breast 
That  will  never  let  him  rest. 


TEtSTKAM   AND    ISEULT.  99 

These  musing  fits  in  the  green  wood 
They  cloud  the  brain,  they  dull  the  blood. 

His  sword  is  sharp  —  his  horse  is  good  — 
Beyond  the  mountains  will  he  see 
The  famous  towns  of  Italy, 
And  label  with  the  blessed  sign 
The  heathen  Saxons  on  the  Rhine. 
At  Arthur's  side  he  fights  once  more 
With  the  Roman  Emperor. 
There's  many  a  gay  knight  where  he  goes 
Will  help  him  to  forget  his  care. 
The  march — the  leaguer — Heaven's  blithe  air  — 
The  neighing  steeds  —  the  ringing  blows  ; 

Sick  pining  comes  not  where  these  are. 
Ah,  what  boots  it,  that  the  jest 
Lightens  every  other  brow, 
What,  that  every  other  breast 
Dances  as  the  trumpets  blow. 
If  one's  own  heart  beats  not  light 
On  the  waves  of  the  toss'd  fight. 
If  oneself  cannot  get  free 
From  the  clog  of  misery  ? 

Thy  lovely  youthful  Wife  grows  pale 
Watching  by  the  salt  sea  tide 
With  her  children  at  her  side 
For  the  gleam  of  thy  white  sail. 
Home,  Tristram,  to  thy  halls  again  ! 
To  our  lonely  sea  complain, 

To  our  forests  tell  thy  pain. 


100  TRISTEAM   AND    ISEULT. 


TEISTKAM. 

All  round  the  forest  sweeps  off,  black  in  shade, 
But  it  is  moonlight  in  the  open  glade : 
And  in  the  bottom  of  the  glade  shine  clear 
The  forest  chapel  and  the  fountain  near. 

I  think,  I 'have  a  fever  in  my  blood  : 
Come,  let  me  leave  the  shadow  of  this  wood, 
Ride  down,  and  bathe  my  hot  brow  in  the  flood. 

Mild  shines  the  cold  spring  in  the  moon's  clear  light. 
God  !  'tis  her  face  plays  in  the  waters  bright.  — 
"  Fair  love,"  she  says,  "  canst  thou  forget  so  soon, 
At  this  soft  hour,  under  this  sweet  moon  ?  "  — 
Iseult ! 


Ah,  poor  soul,  if  this  be  so. 
Only  death  can  balm  thy  woe. 
The  solitudes  of  the  green  wood 
Had  no  medicine  for  thy  mood. 

The  rushing  battle  clear'd  thy  blood 
As  little  as  did  solitude. 

Ah,  his  eyelids  slowly  break 
Their  hot  seals,  and  let  him  wake. 
What  new  change  shall  we  now  see  ? 

A  happier  ?     Worse  it  cannot  be. 


TRISTRAM    AND    ISETJLT.  10.1 


TRISTRAM. 


Is  my  Page  here  ?     Come,  turn  me  to  the  fire. 
Upon  the  window  panes  the  moon  shines,  bright ; 
The  wind  is  down :  but  she'll  not  come  to-night. 
Ah  no  —  she  is  asleep  in  Tyntagil 
Far  hence  —  her  dreams  are  fair  —  her  sleep  is  still. 
Of  me  she  recks  not,  nor  of  my  desire. 

I  have  had  dreams,  I  have  had  dreams,  my  Page, 
Would  take  a  score  years  from  a  strong  man's  age  ; 
And  with  a  blood  like  mine,  will  leave,  I  fear, 
Scant  leisure  for  a  second  messenger. 

My  Princess,  art  thou  there  ?     Sweet,  'tis  too  late. 
To  bed,  and  sleep  :  my  fever  is  gone  by  : 
To-night  my  Page  shall  keep  me  company. 
Where  do  the  children  sleep  ?  kiss  them  for  me. 
Poor  child,  thou  art  almost  as  pale  as  I : 
This  comes  of  nursing  long  and  watching  late. 
To  bed  —  good  night ! 


She  left  the  gleam-lit  fire-place. 

She  came  to  the  bed-side. 
She  took  his  hands  in  hers  :  her  tears 
Down  on  her  slender  fingers  rain'd. 
She  rais'd  her  eyes  upon  his  face  — 
Not  with  a  look  of  wounded  pride, 
A  look  as  if  the  heart  complained  :  — 


102  TRISTEAM   AND    ISEULT. 

Her  look  was  like  a  sad  embrace  ; 
The  gaze  of  one  who  can  divine 
A  grief,  and  sympathize. 
Sweet  Flower,  thy  children's  eyes 

Are  not  more  innocent  than  thine. 

But  they  sleep  in  shelter' d  rest, 
Like  helpless  birds  in  the  warm  nest, 
On  the  Castle's  southern  side ; 
Where  feebly  comes  the  mournful  roar 
Of  buffeting  wind  and  surging  tide 
Through  many  a  room  and  corridor. 
Full  on  their  window  the  Moon's  ray 
Makes  their  chamber  as  bright  as  day  ; 
It  shines  upon  the  blank  white  walls, 
And  on  the  snowy  pillow  falls, 
And  on  two  angel-heads  doth  play 
Turn'd  to  each  other  :  —  the  eyes  clos'd  - 

The  lashes  on  the  cheeks  repos'd. 
Round  each  sweet  brow  the  cap  close-set 
Hardly  lets  peep  the  golden  hair ; 
Through  the  soft-open' d  lips  the  air 
Scarcely  moves  the  coverlet. 
One  little  wandering  arm  is  thrown 
At  random  on  the  counterpane. 
And  often  the  fingers  close  in  haste 
As  if  their  baby  owner  chas'd 
The  butterflies  again. 
This  stir  they  have  and  this  alone  ; 
But  else  they  are  so  still. 


TEISTRAM   AND    ISEULT.  103 

Ah,  tired  macjcaps,  you  lie  still. 
But  were  you  at  the  window  now 
To  look  forth  on  the  fairy  sight 
Of  your  illumin'd  haunts  by  night ; 
To  see  the  park-glades  where  you  play 
Far  lovelier  than  they  are  by  day  ; 
To  see  the  sparkle  on  the  eaves, 
And  upon  every  giant  bough  ^ 

Of  those  old  oaks,  whose  wet  red  leaves 
Are 'je well' d  with  bright  drops  of  rain  — 

How  would  your  voices  run  again  ! 
And  far  beyond  the  sparkling  trees 
Of  the  castle  park  one  sees 
The  bare  heaths  spreading,  clear  as  day, 
Moor  behind  moor,  far,  far  away, 
Into  the  heart  of  Brittany. 
And  here  and  there,  lock'd  by  the  land, 
Long  inlets  of  smooth  glittering  sea. 
And  many  a  stretch  of  watery-sand 
All  shining  in  the  white  moon-beams. 

But  you  see  fairer  in  your  dreams. 

What  voices  are  these  on  the  clear  night  air  ? 
What  lights  in  the  court  ?  what  steps  on  the  stair  ? 


TRISTRAM    AND    ISEULT 

ISEULT     OF     IRELAND. 


TRISTKAM. 

Raise  tlie  ligbt,  my  Page,  that  I  may  see  her.  — 
Thou  art  come  at  last  then,  haughty  Queen ! 

Long  I've  waited,  long  I've  fought  my  fever  : 
Late  thou  comest,  cruel  thou  hast  heen. 

ISEULT. 

Blame  me  not,  poor  sufferer,  that  I  tarried : 
I  was  bound,  I  could  not  break  the  band. 

Chide  not  with  the  past,  but  feel  the  present : 
I  am  here  —  we  meet  —  I  hold  thy  hand. 

TKISTEAM. 

Thou  art  come,  indeed —  thou  hast  rejoin'd  me ; 

Thou  hast  dar'd  it :  but  too  late  to  save. 
Fear  not  now  that  men  should  tax  thy  honor. 

I  am  dying  :  build  —  (thou  may'st)  —  my  grave 


TRISTEAM    AND    ISEULT.  105 


ISEULT. 


Tristram,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  speak  kindly ! 

What,  I  hear  these  bitter  words  from  thee  ? 
Sick  with  grief  I  am,  and  faint  with  travel  — 

Take  my  hand  —  dear  Tristram,  look  on  me  1 


TBISTKAM. 


I  forgot,  thou  comest  from  thy  voyage. 

Yes,  the  spray  is  on  thy  cloak  and  hair. 
But  thy  dark  eyes  are  not  dimm'd,  proud  Iseult  I 

And  thy  beauty  never  was  more  fair. 


ISEULT. 


Ah,  harsh  flatterer !  let  alone  my  beauty. 

I,  like  thee,  have  left  my  youth  afar. 
Take  my  hand,  and  touch  these  wasted  fingers-  • 

See  my  cheek  and  lips,  how  white  they  arc 


TEISTRAM. 

Thou  art  paler  :  —  but  thy  sweet  charm,  Iseult  f' 
Would  not  fade  with  the  dull  years  away. 

Ah,  how  fair  thou  standest  in  the  moonlight ! 
I  forgive  thee,  Iseult !  —  thou  wilt  stay  ? 
7 


106  TKISTEAM    AND    ISEULT. 


ISEUIiT. 


Fear  me  not,  I  will  be  always  with  thee  ; 

I  will  watch  thee,  tend  thee,  soothe  thy  pain ; 
Sing  thee  tales  of  true  long-parted  lovers 

Join'd  at  evening  of  their  days  again. 


TKISTRAM. 

No,  thou  shalt  not  speak ;  I  should  be  finding 
Something  alter' d  in  thy  courtly  tone. 

Sit  —  sit  by  me :  I  will  think,  we've  liv'd  so 
In  the  greenwood,  all  our  lives,  alone. 

ISEULT. 

Alter'd,  Tristram  ?     Not  in  courts,  believe  me, 
Love  like  mine  is  alter'd  in  the  breast. 

Courtly  life  is  light  and  cannot  reach  it. 
Ah,  it  lives,  because  so  deep  suppress'd. 

Royal  state  with  Marc,  my  deep- wrong' d  husband  — 
That  was  bliss  to  make  my  sorrows  flee  ! 

Silken  courtiers  whispering  honied  nothings  — 
Those  were  friends  to  make  me  false  to  thee ! 

"What,  thou  think'st,  men  speak  in  courtly  chambers 
Words  by  which  the  wretched  are  consol'd  ? 

What,  thou  think'st,  this  aching  brow  was  cooler, 
Circled,  Tristram,  by  a  band  of  gold  ? 


THISTRAM   AJSTD    ISEULT.  107 

Ah,  on  which,  if  both  our  lots  were  balanc'd, 
Was  indeed  the  heaviest  burden  thrown, 

Thee,  a  weeping  exile  in  thy  forest  — 
Me,  a  smiling  queen  upon  my  throne  ? 

Vain  and  strange  debate,  where  both  have  suffer' d  ; 

Both  have  pass'd  a  youth  constrain'd  and  sad ; 
Both  have  brought  their  anxious  day  to  evening, 

And  have  now  short  space  for  being  glad. 

Join'd  we  are  henceforth :  nor  will  thy  people. 

Nor  thy  younger  Iseult  take  it  ill. 
That  an  ancient  rival  shares  her  office, 

When  she  sees  her  humbled,  pale,  and  still. 

I,  a  faded  watcher  by  thy  pillow, 

I,  a  statue  on  thy  chapel  floor, 
Pour'd  in  grief  before  the  Virgin  Mother, 

Rouse  no  anger,  make  no  rivals  more. 

She  will  cry  —  "Is  this  the  foe  I  dreaded ? 

This  his  idol  ?  this  that  royal  bride  ? 
Ah,  an  hour  of  health  would  purge  his  eyesight ; 

Stay,  pale  queen  !  forever  by  my  side." 

Hush,  no  words !  that  smile,  I  see,  forgives  me. 

I  am  now  thy  nurse,  I  bid  thee  sleep. 
Close  thine  eyes  —  this  flooding  moonlight  blinds  them  — 

Nay,  all's  well  again :  thou  must  not  weep. 


108  TEISTKAM    AXD    ISEULT. 


TRISTKAM. 

I  am  happy :  yet  I  feel,  there's  something 
Swells  my  heart,  and  takes  my  breath  away  : 

Through  a  mist  I  see  thee  :  near  !  —  come  nearer  ! 
Bend  —  bend  down  —  I  yet  have  much  to  say. 

ISEULT. 

Heaven  !  his  head  sinlcs  back  upon  the  pillow  !  — 
Tristram  i  Tristram  !  let  thy  heart  not  fail. 

Call  on  God  and  on  the  holy  angels ! 

What,  love,  courage  !  —  Christ !  he  is  so  pale. 

TRISTRAM:. 

Hush,  'tis  vain,  I  feel  my  end  approaching. 

This  is  what  my  mother  said  should  be, 
When  the  fierce  pains  took  her  in  the  forest, 

The  deep  draughts  of  death,  in  bearing  me. 

"  Son,"  she  said,  "  thy  name  shall  be  of  sorrow  ! 

Tristram  art  thou  call'd  for  my  death's  sake  ! " 
So  she  said,  and  died  in  the  drear  forest. 

Grief  since  then  his  home  with  me  doth  make. 

I  am  dying.  —  Start  not,  nor  look  wildly  ! 

Me,  thy  living  friend,  thou  canst  not  save. 
But,  since  living  we  were  ununited. 

Go  not  far,  O  Iseult !  from  my  grave. 


TRISTKAM   AND   ISETJLT.  109 

Rise,  go  hence,  and  seek  the  princess  Iseult : 

Speak  her  fair,  she  is  of  royal  hlood. 
Say,  I  charg'd  her,  that  ye  live  together :  — 

She  will  grant  it  —  she  is  kind  and  good. 
Now  to  sail  the  seas  of  Death  I  leave  thee. 

One  last  kiss  upon  the  living  shore  ! 

ISEULT. 

Tristram !  —  Tristram !  —  stay  —  receive  me  with  thee ! 
Iseult  leaves  thee,  Tristram,  never  more. 


You  see  them  clear :  the  moon  shines  bright. 
Slow  —  slow  and  softly,  where  she  stood. 
She  sinks  upon  the  ground :  her  hood 
Had  fallen  hack  :  her  arms  outspread 
Still  hold  her  lover's  hands :  her  head 
Is  how'd,  half-buried,  on  the  bed. 
O'er  the  blanch'd  sheet  her  raven  hair 
Lies  in  disorder' d  streams  ;  and  there, 
Strung  like  white  stars,  the  pearls  still  are. 
And  the  golden  bracelets  heavy  and  rare 
Flash  on  her  white  arms  still. 
The  very  same  which  yesternight 
Flash' d  in  the  silver  sconces'  light. 
When  the  feast  was  loud  and  the  laughter  shrill 
In  the  banquet-hall  of  Tyntagil. 
But  then  they  deck'd  a  restless  ghost 


110  •  TBISTEAM    AND    ISEFLT. 

"With  hot  flush' d  cheeks  and  brilliant  eyes 
And  quivering  lips  on  which  the  tide 
Of  courtly  speech  abruptly  died, 
And  a  glance  that  over  the  crowded  floor, 
The  dancers,  and  the  festive  host, 

Flew  ever  to  the  door. 
That  the  knights  eyed  her  in  surprise. 
And  the  dames  whisper' d  scofiingly  — 
"  Her  moods,  good  lack,  they  pass  like  showers  ! 
But  yesternight  and  she  would  be 
As  pale  and  still  as  wither' d  flowers. 
And  now  to-night  she  laughs  and  speaks 
And  has  a  color  in  her  cheeks. 

Heaven  keep  us  from  such  fantasy  !  "  — 

The  air  of  the  December  night 
Steals  coldly  around  the  chamber  bright, 
Where  those  lifeless  lovers  be. 
Swinging  with  it,  in  the  light 
Flaps  the  ghostlike  tapestry. 
And  on  the  arras  wrought  you  see 
A  stately  Huntsman,  clad  in  green. 
And  round  him  a  fresh  forest  scene. 
On  that  clear  forest  knoll  he  stays 
With  his  pack  round  him,  and  delays. 

He  stares  and  stares,  with  troubled  face. 
At  this  huge  gleam-lit  fireplace. 
At  the  bright  iron-figur'd  door. 
And  those  blown  rushes  on  the  floor. 

He  gazes  down  into  the  room 


TRISTBAM   AND    ISEFLT.  Ill 

With,  heated  cheeks  and  flurried  air, 

And  to  himself  he  seems  to  say  — 

"  What  place  is  this,  and  who  are  they  7 

Who  is  that  kneeling  Lady  fair  ? 

And  on  his  pillows  that  pale  Knight 

Who  seems  of  marble  on  a  tomh  7 

How  comes  it  here,  this  chamber  bright. 

Through  whose  mullion^d  windows  clear 

The  castle  court  all  wet  with  rain. 

The  draivbridge  and  the  moat  appear. 

And  then  the  beach,  and,  mark'd  with  spray, 

The  sunken  reefs,  and  far  away 

The  unquiet  bright  Atlantic  plain  7  — 

What,  has  some  glamour  made  me  sleep, 
And  sent  me  with  my  dogs  to  sweep. 
By  night,  with  boisterous  bugle  peal, 
Through  some  old,  sea-side,  knightly  hall. 
Not  in  the  free  greenwood  at  all  7 
That  Knight's  asleep,  and  at  her  prayer 
That  Lady  by  the  bed  doth  kneel : 
Then  hush,  thou  boisterous  bugle  peal  f^'  — 

The  wild  boar  rustles  in  his  lair  — 
The  fierce  hounds  snufF  the  tainted  air  — 
But  lord  and  hounds  keep  rooted  there. 

Cheer,  cheer  thy  dogs  into  the  brake, 
O  Hunter  !  and  without  a  fear 
Thy  golden- tassell'd  bugle  blow, 
And  through,  the  glades  thy  pastime  take  ! 


112  TRISTRAM   AND    ISETJLT. 

For  thou  wilt  rouse  no  sleepers  here. 
For  these  thou  seest  are  unmov'd  ; 
Cold,  cold  as  those  who  liv'd  and  lov'd 

A  thousand  years  ago. 


TRISTRAM  AND   ISEULT. 
III. 

ISEULT    OF    BRITTANY. 


A  YEAR  had  flown,  and  o'er  the  sea  away, 
In  Cornwall,  Tristram  and  queen  Iseult  lay ; 
At  Tyntagil,  in  King  Marc's  chapel  old  : 
There  is  a  ship  they  bore  those  lovers  cold. 
The  young  surviving  Iseult,  one  bright  day, 
Had  wander' d  forth  :  her  children  were  at  play 
In  a  green  circular  hollow  in  the  heath 
Which  borders  the  sea-shore  ;  a  country  path 
Creeps  over  it  from  the  till'd  fields  behind. 
The  hollow's  grassy  banks  are  soft  inclin'd. 
And  to  one  standing  on  them,  far  and  near 
The  lone  unbroken  view  spreads  bright  and  clear 
Over  the  waste  :  —  This  cirque  of  open  ground 
Is  light  and  green  ;  the  heather,  which  all  round 
Creeps  thickly,  grows  not  here  ;  but  the  pale  grass 
Is  strewn  with  rocks,  and  many  a  shiver'd  mass 


114  TEISTRAM   AND    ISEULT. 

Of  vein'd  white-gleaming  quartz,  and  here  and  there 
Dotted  with  holly  trees  and  juniper. 
In  the  smooth  centre  of  the  opening  stood 
Three  hollies  side  by  side,  and  made  a  screen 
Warm  with  the  winter  sun,  of  burnish' d  green. 
With  scarlet  berries  gemm'd,  the  fell-fare's  food. 
Under  the  glittering  hollies  Iseult  stands 
Watching  her  children  play  :  their  little  hands 
Are  busy  gathering  spars  of  quartz,  and  streams 
Of  stagshorn  for  their  hats  :  anon,  with  screams 
Of  mad  delight  they  drop  their  spoils  and  bound 
Among  the  holly  clumps  and  broken  ground, 
Racing  full  speed,  and  startling  in  their  rush 
The  fell-fares  and  the  speckled  missel-thrush 
Out  of  their  glossy  coverts  :  but  when  now 
Their  cheeks  were  flush' d,  and  over  each  hot  brow 
Under  the  feather' d  hats  of  the  sweet  pair 
In  blinding  masses  shower' d  the  golden  hair  — 
Then  Iseult  called  them  to  her,  and  the  three 
Cluster' d  under  the  holly  screen,  and  she 
Told  them  an  old-world  Breton  history. 


Warm  in  their  mantles  wrapt,  the  three  stood  there, 
Under  the  hollies,  in  the  clear  still  air  — 
Mantles  with  those  rich  furs  deep  glistering 
Which  Venice  ships  do  from  swart  Egypt  bring. 
Long  they  staid  still  —  then,  pacing  at  their  ease. 
Moved  up  and  down  under  the  glossy  trees  ; 


TRISTRAM    AXD    ISEULT.  115 

But  still  as  they  pursued  their  warm  dry  road 

From  Iseult's  lips  the  unbroken  story  flow'd, 

And  still  the  children  listen' d,  their  blue  eyes 

Fix'd  on  their  mother's  face  in  wide  surprise  ; 

Nor  did  their  looks  stray  once  to  the  sea-side, 

Nor  to  the  brown  heaths  round  them,  bright  and  wide, 

Nor  to  the  snow  which,  though  'twas  all  away 

From  the  open  heath,  still  by  the  hedgerows  lay, 

Nor  to  the  shining  sea-fowl  that  with  screams 

Bore  up  from  where  the  bright  Atlantic  gleams. 

Swooping  to  landward  ;  nor  to  where,  quite  clear. 

The  fell-fares  settled  on  the  thickets  near. 

And  they  would  still  have  listen' d,  till  dark  night 

Came  keen  and  chill  down  on  the  heather  bright ; 

But,  when  the  red  glow  on  the  sea  grew  cold. 

And  the  gray  turrets  of  the  castle  old 

Look'd  sternly  through  the  frosty  evening  air,  — 

Then  Iseult  took  by  the  hand  those  children  fair. 

And  brought  her  tale  to  an  end,  and  found  the  path, 

And  led  them  home  over  the  darkening  heath. 

And  is  she  happy  ?     Does  she  see  unmov'd 
The  days  in  which  she  might  have  liv'd  and  lov'd 
Slip  without  bringing  bliss  slowly  .away. 
One  after  one,  to-morrow  like  to-day  ? 
Joy  has  not  found  her  yet,  nor  ever  will :  — 
Is  it  this  thought  that  makes  her  mien  so  still, 
Her  features  so  fatigued,  her  eyes,  though  sweet. 
So  sunk,  so  rarely  lifted  save  to  meet 


116  TRISTRAM    AND    ISETJLT. 

Her  children's  ?     She  moves  slow :  her  voice  alone 

Has  yet  an  infantine  and  silver  tone, 

But  even  that  comes  languidly  :  in  truth, 

She  seems  one  dying  in  a  mask  of  youth. 

And  now  she  will  go  home  and  softly  lay 

Her  laughing  children  in  their  beds,  and  play 

Awhile  with  them  before  they  sleep  ;  and  then 

She'll  light  her  silver  lamp,  which  fishermen 

Dragging  their  nets  through  the  rough  waves,  afar, 

Along  this  iron  coast,  know  like  a  star. 

And  take  her  broidery  frame,  and  there  she'll  sit 

Hour  after  hour,  her  gold  curls  sweeping  it. 

Lifting  her  soft-bent  head  only  to  mind 

Her  children,  or  to  listen  to  the  wind. 

And  when  the  clock  peals  midnight,  she  will  move 

Her  work  away,  and  let  her  fingers  rove 

Across  the  shaggy  brows  of  Tristram's  hound 

Who  lies,  guarding  her  feet,  along  the  ground : 

Or  else  she  will  fall  musing,  her  blue  eyes 

Fix'd,  her  slight  hands  clasp'd  on  her  lap  ;  then  rise. 

And  at  her  prie-dieu  kneel,  until  she  have  told 

Her  rosary  beads  of  ebony  tipp'd  with  gold. 

Then  to  her  soft  sleep  :  and  to-morrow  '11  be 

To-day's  exact  repeated  effigy. 

Yes,  it  is  lonely  for  her  in  her  hall. 
The  children,  and  the  gray-hair' d  seneschal. 
Her  women,  and  Sir  Tristram's  aged  hound. 
Are  there  the  sole  companions  to  be  found. 


TRISTRAM    AND    ISEULT.  117 

But  tliese  she  loves :  and  noisier  life  than  this 

She  would  find  ill  to  bear,  weak  as  she  is : 

She  has  her  children  too,  and  night  and  day 

Is  with  them ;  and  the  wide  heaths  where  they  play, 

The  hollies,  and  the  cliff,  and  the  sea-shore. 

The  sand,  the  sea  birds,  and  the  distant  sails, 

These  are  to  her  dear  as  to  them :  the  tales 

With  which  this  day  the  children  she  beguil'd 

She  glean' d  from  Breton  grandames  when  a  child 

In  every  hut  along  this  sea-coast  wild. 

She  herself  loves  them  still,  and,  when  they  are  told, 

Can  forget  all  to  hear  them,  as  of  old. 

What  tale  did  Iseult  to  the  children  say, 
Under  the  hollies,  that  bright  winter's  day  ? 

She  told  them  of  the  fairy-haunted  land 
Away  the  other  side  of  Brittany, 
Beyond  the  heaths,  edg'd  by  the  lonely  sea ; 
Of  the  deep  forest-glades  of  Broce-liande, 
Through   whose    green    boughs    the   golden   sunshine 

creeps, 
Where  Merlin  by  the  enchanted  thorn-tree  sleeps. 
For  here  he  came  with  the  fay  Vivian, 
One  April,  when  the  warm  days  first  began ; 
He  was  on  foot,  and  that  false  fay,  his  friend. 
On  her  white  palfrey :  here  he  met  his  end, 
In  these  lone  sylvan  glades,  that  April  day. 
This  tale  of  Merlin  and  the  lovely  fay 


118  TRISTRAM    AND    ISEULT. 

Was  the  one  Iseult  chose,  and  she  brought  clear 
Before  the  children's  fancy  him  and  her. 

Blowing  between  the  stems  the  forest  air 
Had  loosen' d,  the  brown  curls  of  Vivian's  hair, 
Which  play'd  on  her  flush' d  cheek,  and  her  blue  eyes 
Sparkled  with  mocking  glee  and  exercise. 
Her  palfrey's  flanks  were  mired  and  bath'd  in  sweat, 
For  they  had  travell'd  far  and  not  stopp'd  yet. 
A  briar  in  that  tangled  wilderness 
Had  scor'd  her  white  right  hand,  which  she  allows 
To  rest  unglov'd  on  her  green  riding-dress ; 
The  other  warded  off  the  drooping  boughs. 
But  still  she  chatted  on,  with  her  blue  eyes 
Fix'd  full  on  Merlin's  face,  her  stately  prize : 
Her  'havior  had  the  morning's  fresh  clear  grace, 
The  spirit  of  the  woods  was  in  her  face ; 
She  look'd  so  witching  fair,  that  learned  wight 
Forgot  his  craft,  and  his  best  wits  took  flight, 
And  he  grew  fond,  and  eager  to  obey 
His  mistress,  use  her  empire  as  she  may. 

They  came  to  where  the  brushwood  ceas'd,  and  day 
Peer'd  twixt  the  stems  ;  and  the  ground  broke  away 
In  a  slop'd  sward  down  to  a  brawling  brook. 
And  up  as  high  as  where  they  stood  to  look 
On  the  brook's  further  side  was  clear ;  but  then 
The  underwood  and  trees  began  again. 


TRISTKAM    AND    ISEULT.  119 

This  open  glen  was  studded  thick  with  thorns 
Then  white  with  blossom ;  and  you  saw  the  horns, 
Through  the  green  fern,  of  the  shy  fallow-deer 
Which  come  at  noon  down  to  the  water  here. 
You  saw  the  bright-eyed  squirrels  dart  along 
Under  the  thorns  on  the  green  sward ;  and  strong 
The  blackbird  whistled  from  the  dingles  near. 
And  the  light  chipping  of  the  woodpecker 
Rang  lonelily  and  sharp :   the  sky  was  fair, 
And  a  fresh  breath  of  spring  stirr'd  everywhere. 
Merlin  and  Vivian  stopp'd  on  the  slope's  brow 
To  gaze  on  the  green  sea  of  leaf  and  bough 
Which  glistering  lay  all  round  them,  lone  and  mild. 
As  if  to  itself  the  quiet  forest  smil'd. 
Upon  the  brow-top  grew  a  thorn ;  and  here 
The  grass  was  dry  and  moss'd,  and  you  saw  clear 
Across  the  hollow  :  white  anemones 
Starr'd  the  cool  turf,  and  clumps  of  primroses 
Ran  out  from  the  dark  underwood  behind. 
No  fairer  resting-place  a  man  could  find. 
"  Here  let  us  halt,"  said  Merlin  then  ;  and  she 
Nodded,  and  tied  her  palfrey  to  a  tree. 

They  sate  them  down  together,  and  a  sleep 
Fell  upon  Merlin,  more  like  death,  so  deep. 
Her  finger  on  her  lips,  then  Vivian  rose, 
And  from  her  brown-lock'd  head  the  wimple  throws, 
And  takes  it  in  her  hand,  and  waves  it  over 
The  blossom'd  thorn-tree  and  her  sleeping  lover. 


120  TRISTKAM    AND    ISEULT. 

Nine  times  she  wav'd  the  fluttering  wimple  round, 

And  made  a  little  plot  of  magic  ground. 

And  in  that  daisied  circle,  as  men  say. 

Is  Merlin  prisoner  till  the  judgment-day. 

But  she  herself  whither  she  will  can  rove, 

For  she  was  passing  weary  of  his  love. 


THE    CHURCH    OF    BROU 


I. 

THE     CASTLE 


Down  tlie  Savoy  valleys  sounding, 
Echoing  round  this  castle  old, 

'Mid  the  distant  mountain  chalfets 

Hark  !  what  bell  for  church  is  toll'd  ? 


In  the  bright  October  morning 
Savoy's  Duke  had  left  his  bride. 

From  the  Castle,  past  the  drawbridge, 
Flow'd  the  hunters'  merry  tide. 

Steeds  are  neighing,  gallants  glittering. 

Gay,  her  smiling  lord  to  greet. 
From  her  mullion'd  chamber  casement 

Smiles  the  Duchess  Marguerite. 
8 


122  THE    CHUKCH    OF    BEOTT. 

From  Vienna  by  the  Danube 

Here  she  came,  a  bride,  in  spring. 

Now  tbe  autumn  crisps  the  forest ; 
Hunters  gather,  bugles  ring. 


Hounds  are  pulling,  prickers  swearing, 
Horses  fret,  and  boar- spears  glance  : 

Off !  —  They  sweep  the  marshy  forests, 
Westward,  on  the  side  of  France. 


Hark  I  the  game 's  on  foot ;  they  scatter  : 
Down  the  forest  ridings  lone, 

Furious,  single  horsemen  gallop. 

Hark  !  a  shout  —  a  crash  —  a  groan  ! 

Pale  and  breathless,  came  the  hunters. 

On  the  turf  dead  lies  the  boar. 
God  !  the  Duke  lies  stretch'd  beside  him 

Senseless,  weltering  in  his  gore. 


In  the  dull  October  evening, 

Down  the  leaf-strewn  forest  road, 

To  the  Castle,  past  the  drawbridge, 
Came  the  hunters  with  their  load. 


THE.  CHTJBCH    OF    BROIT.  123 

In  the  hall,  with  sconces  blazing, 

Ladies  waiting  round  her  seat, 
Cloth'd  in  smiles,  beneath  the  dais 

Sate  the  Duchess  Marguerite. 

Hark  !  below  the  gates  unbarring  ! 

Tramp  of  men  and  quick  commands  ! 
"  —  'Tis  my  lord  come  back  from  hunting."  — 

And  the  Duchess  claps  her  hands. 

Slow  and  tired  came  the  hunters  ! 

Stopp'd  in  darkness  in  the  court. 
"  —  Ho,  this  way,  ye  laggard  hunters  ! 

To  the  hall !     What  sport,  what  sport  ?  "  — 

Slow  they  enter' d  with  their  Master ; 

In  the  hall  they  laid  him  down. 
On  his  coat  were  leaves  and  blood-stains  : 

On  his  brow  an  angry  frown. 

Dead  her  princely  youthful  husband 

Lay  before  his  youthful  wife  ; 
Bloody,  'neath  the  flaring  sconces  : 

And  the  sight  froze  all  her  life. 

In  Vienna  by  the  Danube 

Kings  hold  revel,  gallants  meet. 
Gay  of  old  amid  the  gayest 

Was  the  Duchess  Marguerite. 


124  THE    CHITKCH    OF    BROU. 

In  Vienna  by  the  Danube 

Feast  and  dance  her  youth  beguil'd. 
Till  that  hour  she  never  sorrow' d ; 

But  from  then  she  never  smil'd. 

'Mid  the  Savoy  mountain  valleys 
Far  from  town  or  haunt  of  man, 

Stands  a  lonely  Church,  unfinish'd. 
Which  the  Duchess  Maud  began  : 

Old,  that  Duchess  stern  began  it ; 

In  gray  age,  with  palsied  hands. 
But  she  died  as  it  was  building. 

And  the  Church  unfinish'd  stands  ; 

Stands  as  erst  the  builders  left  it. 
When  she  sunk  into  her  grave. 

Mountain  greensward  paves  the  chancel. 
Harebells  flower  in  the  nave. 

"  In  my  Castle  all  is  sorrow,"  — 
Said  the  Duchess  Marguerite  then. 

"  Guide  me,  vassals,  to  the  mountains  ! 
We  will  build  the  Church  again."  — 

Sandall'd  palmers,  faring  homeward, 
Austrian  knights  from  Syria  came. 

*'  Austrian  wanderers  bring,  0  warders. 
Homage  to  your  Austrian  dame." 


THE    CHUKCH    OF    BKOU.  125 

From  the  gate  the  warders  answer' d  ; 

"  Gone,  O  knights,  is  she  you  knew. 
Dead  our  Duke,  and  gone  his  Duchess. 

Seek  her  at  the  Church  of  Brou."  — 

Austrian  knights  and  march-worn  palmers 

Climb  the  winding  mountain  way. 
Reach  the  valley,  where  the  Fabric 

Rises  higher  day  by  day. 

Stones  are  sawing,  hammers  ringing  ; 

On  the  work  the  bright  sun  shines  : 
In  the  Savoy  mountain  meadows, 

By  the  stream,  below  the  pines. 

On  her  palfrey  white  the  Duchess 
Sate  and  watch' d  her  working  train  ; 

Flemish  carvers,  Lombard  gilders, 
German  masons,  smiths  from  Spain. 

Clad  in  black,  on  her  white  palfrey ; 

Her  old  architect  beside  — 
There  they  found  her  in  the  mountains. 

Morn  and  noon  and  eventide. 

There  she  sate,  and  watch'd  the  builders, 
Till  the  Church  was  roof 'd  and  done. 

Last  of  all  the  builders  rear'd  her 
In  the  nave  a  tomb  of  stone. 


126  THE    CHUKCH    OF    BROTJ. 

On  the  tomb  two  Forms  they  sculptur'd 

Lifelike  in  the  marble  pale. 
One,  the  Duke  in  helm  and  armor ; 

One,  the  Duchess  in  her  veil. 

Pvound  the  tomb  the  carv'd  stone  fret-work 

Was  at  Easter  tide  put  on. 
Then  the  Duchess  closed  her  labors  ; 

And  she  died  at  the  St.  John. 


THE   CHURCH   OF   BROU 
II. 

THE     CHURCH. 


Upon  the  glistening  leaden  roof 

Of  tlie  new  Pile,  the  sunlight  shines. 
The  stream  goes  leaping  by. 
The  hills  are  cloth' d  with  pines  sun-proof. 
'Mid  bright  green  fields,  below  the  pines, 
Stands  the  Church  on  high. 
What  Church  is  this,  from  men  aloof  ? 
'Tis  the  Church  of  Brou. 


At  sunrise,  from  their  dewy  lair 

Crossing  the  stream,  the  kine  are  seen 
Round  the  wall  to  st»-ay  ; 


128  THE    CHURCH    OF   BROU. 

The  churchyard  wall  that  clips  the  square 
Of  shaven  hill-sward  trim  and  green 
Where  last  year  they  lay. 

But  all  things  now  are  order' d  fair 

Round  the  Church  of  Brou. 


On  Sundays,  at  the  matin  chime, 
The  Alpine  peasants,  two  and  three. 
Climb  up  here  to  pray. 
Burghers  and  dames,  at  summer's  prime, 
E-ide  out  to  church  from  Chambery, 
Dight  with  mantles  gay. 
But  else  it  is  a  lonely  time 
Round  the  Church  of  Brou. 


On  Sundays  too,  a  priest  doth  come 
From  the  wall'd  town  beyond  the  pass, 
Down  the  mountain  way. 
And  then  you  hear  the  organ's  hum. 

You  hear  the  white-rob' d  priest  say  mass. 
And  the  people  pray. 
But  else  the  woods  and  fields  are  dumb 
Round  the  church  of  Brou. 


And  after  church,  when  mass  is  done, 
The  people  to  the  nave  repair 
Round  the  Tomb  to  stray. 


THE    CHUKCH    OF    BEOTJ.  129 

And  marvel  at  the  Forms  of  stone, 

And  praise  the  chisell'd  broideries  rare- 
Then  they  drop  away. 
The  Princely  Pair  are  left  alone 
In  the  Church  of  Brou. 


THE  CHURCH    OP   BROU. 
III. 

THE     TOMB. 


So  rest,  forever  rest,  O  Princely  Pair ! 
In  your  high  Church,  'mid  the  still  mountain  air, 
"Where  horn,  and  hound,  and  vassals,  never  come. 
Only  the  blessed  Saints  are  smiling  dumb 
From  the  rich  painted  windows  of  the  nave 
On  aisle,  and  transept,  and  your  marble  grave : 
Where  thou,  young  Prince,  shalt  never  more  arise 
From  the  fring'd  mattress  where  thy  Duchess  lies, 
On  autumn  mornings,  when  the  bugle  sounds. 
And  ride  across  the  drawbridge  with  thy  hounds 
To  hunt  the  boar  in  the  crisp  woods  till  eve. 
And  thou,  O  Princess,  shalt  no  more  receive, 
Thou  and  thy  ladies,  in  the  hall  of  state. 
The  jaded  hunters  with  their  bloody  freight, 
Come  benighted  to  the  castle  gate. 

So  sleep,  forever  sleep,  O  Marble  Pair  ! 
And  if  ye  wake,  let  it  be  then,  when  fair 


THE    CHUECH    OF    BKOTJ.  131 

On  the  carv'd  Western  Front  a  flood  of  light 

Streams  from  the  setting  sun,  and  colors  bright 

Prophets,  transfigur'd  Saints,  and  Martyrs  brave, 

In  the  vast  western  window  of  the  nave ; 

And  on  the  pavement  round  the  Tomb  their  glints 

A  chequer- work  of  glowing  sapphire  tints, 

And  amethyst,  and  ruby  ;  —  then  unclose 

Your  eyelids  on  the  stone  where  ye  repose, 

And  from  your  broider'd  pillows  lift  your  heads, 

And  rise  upon  your  cold  white  marble  beds, 

And  looking  down  on  the  warm  rosy  tints 

That  chequer,  at  your  feet,  the  illumin'd  flints. 

Say  —  "  What  is  this  ?  we  are  in  bliss  — forgiven  — 

Behold  the  pavement  of  the  courts  of  Heaven  !  "  — 

Or  let  it  be  on  autumn  nights,  when  rain 

Doth  rustlingly  above  your  heads  complain 

On  the  smooth  leaden  roof,  and  on  the  walls 

Shedding  her  pensive  light  at  intervals 

The  moon  through  the  clere-story  windows  shines. 

And  the  wind  washes  in  the  mountain  pines. 

Then,  gazing  up  through  the  dim  pillars  high, 

The  foliag'd  marble  forest  where  ye  lie, 

"  Hush  "  — ye  will  say- —  "  it  is  eternity. 

This  is  the  glimmering  verge  of  Heaven,  and  these 

The  columns  of  the  Heavenly  Palaces.''^ 

And  in  the  sweeping  of  the  wind  your  ear 

The  passage  of  the  Angels'  wings  will  hear. 

And  on  the  lichen-crusted  leads  above 

The  rustle  of  the  eternal  rain  of  Love. 


THE    NECKAN 


In  summer,  on  the  headlands, 

The  Baltic  Sea  along, 
Sits  Neckan  with  his  harp  of  gold, 

And  sings  his  plaintive  song. 

Green  rolls  beneath  the  headlands, 
Green  rolls  the  Baltic  Sea. 

And  there,  below  the  Neckan's  feet, 
His  wife  and  children  be. 

He  sings  not  of  the  ocean. 

Its  shells  and  roses  pale. 
Of  earth,  of  earth  the  Neckan  sings ; 

He  hath  no  other  tale. 

He  sits  upon  the  headlands. 
And  sings  a  mournful  stave 

Of  all  he  saw  and  felt  on  earth. 
Far  from  the  green  sea  wave. 


THE    XECKAN.  l3S 

Sings  how,  a  knight,  he  wander' d 

By  castle,  field,  and  town.  — 
But  earthly  knights  have  harder  hearts 

Than  the  Sea  Children  own. 

Sings  of  his  earthly  bridal  — 

Priest,  knights,  and  ladies  gay. 
"  And  who  art  thou,"  the  priest  began, 

"  Sir  Knight,  who  wedd'st  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  am  no  knight,"  he  answer'd; 

"  From  the  sea  waves  I  come."  — 
The  knights  drew  sword,  the  ladies  scream' d. 

The  surplic'd  priest  stood  dumb. 

He  sings  how  from  the  chapel 

He  vanish' d  with  his  bride, 
And  bore  her  down  to  the  sea  halls. 

Beneath. the  salt  sea  tide. 

He  sings  how  she  sits  weeping 

'Mid  shells  that  round  her  lie. 
"  False  Neckan  shares  my  bed,"  she  weeps  ; 

"  No  Christian  mate  have  I."  — 

He  sings  how  through  the  billows 

He  rose  to  earth  again. 
And  sought  a  priest  to  sign  the  cross, 

That  Neckan  Heaven  might  gain. 


184  THE    NECKAX. 

He  sings  how,  on  an  evening, 
Beneath,  the  birch  trees  cool, 

He  sate  and  play'd  his  harp  of  gold, 
Beside  the  river  pool. 

Beside  the  pool  sate  Neckan  — 
Tears  fill'd  his  cold  blue  eye. 

On  his  white  mule,  across  the  bridge, 
A  cassock'd  priest  rode  by. 

"  Why  sitt'st  thou  there,  0  Neckan, 
And  play'st  thy  harp  of  gold  ? 

Sooner  shall  this  my  staff  bear  leaves. 
Than  thou  shalt  Heaven  behold."  — 

The  cassock'd  priest  rode  onwards, 
And  vanish' d  with  his  mule. 

And  Neckan  in  the  twilight  gray 
Wept  by  the  river  pool. 

In  summer,  on  the  headlands. 

The  Baltic  Sea  along. 
Sits  Neckan  with  his  harp  of  gold, 

And  sings  this  plaintive  song. 


THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN 


Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away ; 

Down  and  away  below. 
Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay ; 
Now  the  great  winds  shorewards  blow  ; 
Now  the  salt  tides  seawards  flow ; 
Now  the  wild  white  horses  play. 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray. 

Children  dear,  let  us  away. 
This  way,  this  way. 

Call  her  once  before  you  go. 

Call  once  yet. 
In  a  voice  that  she  will  know  : 

"  Margaret !  Margaret ! " 
Children's  voices  should  be  dear 
(Call  once  more)  to  a  mother's  ear  : 
Children's  voices,  wild  with  pain. 

Surely  she  will  come  again. 
Call  her  once  and  come  away. 

This  way,  this  way. 
"  Mother  dear,  we  cannot  stay." 


136  THE    FORSAKEN    MEEMAN. 

The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret. 
Margaret !  Margaret ! 

Come,  dear  children,  come  away  down. 

Call  no  more. 
One  last  look  at  the  white-wall'd  town, 
And  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy  shore. 

Then  come  down. 
She  will  not  come  though  you  call  all  day. 
Come  away,  come  away. 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the  bay  ? 

In  the  caverns  where  we  lay. 

Through  the  surf  and  through  the  swell. 

The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell  ? 
Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and  deep, 
"Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep  : 
Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam  ; 
Where  the  salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream ; 
Where  the  sea-beasts  rang'd  all  round 
Feed  in  the  ooze  of  their  pasture -ground ; 
Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine. 
Dry  their  mail  and  bask  in  the  brine  ; 
Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by, 
Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye. 
Round  the  world  forever  and  aye  ? 

When  did  music  come  this  way  ? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 


THE    POKSAKEN    MEKMAN.  137 

Childreii  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

(Call  yet  once)  tliat  she  went  away  ? 

Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me, 

On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the  sea, 

And  the  youngest  sate  on  her  knee. 
She  comb'd  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tended  it  well. 
When  down  swung  the  sound  of  the  far-off  bell. 
She  sigh'd,  she  look'd  up  through  the  clear  green  sea. 
She  said  ;  "  I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk  pray 
In  the  little  gray  church  on  the  shore  to-day. 
'Twill  be  Easter- time  in  the  world  —  ah  me  ! 
And  I  lose  my  poor  soul.  Merman,  here  with  thee.'* 
I  said  ;  "  Go  up,  dear  heart,  through  the  waves, 
Say  thy  prayer,  and  come  back  to  the  kind  sea-caves." 
She  smil'd,  she  went  up  through  the  surf  in  the  bay. 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 

Children  dear,  were  we  long  alone  ? 
"  The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan. 
Long  prayers,"  I  said,  "  in  the  world  they  say. 
Come,"  I  said,  and  we  rose  through  the  surf  in  the  bay. 
We  went  up  the  beach,  by  the  sandy  down 
Where  the  sea-stocks  bloom,  to  the  white-wall'd  town. 
Through  the  narrow  pav'd  streets,  where  all  was  still 
To  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy  hill. 
From  the  church  came  a  murmur  of  folk  at  their  prayers. 
But  we  stood  without  in  the  cold  blowing  airs. 
We  climb'd  on  the  graves,  on  the  stones,  worn  with  rains, 
And  we  gaz'd  up  the  aisle  through  the  small  leaded  panes, 


138  THE    FORSAKEN    MERMAN. 

She  sate  by  tlie  pillar  ;  we  saw  her  clear  : 

"  Margaret,  hist !  come  quick,  we  are  here. 

Dear  heart,"  I  said,  "  we  are  long  alone. 

The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan." 
But,  ah,  she  gave  me  never  a  look. 
For  her  eyes  were  seal'd  to  the  holy  book. 

*'  Loud  prays  the  priest ;  shut  stands  the  door." 
Come  away,  children,  call  no  more. 
Come  away,  come  down,  call  no  more. 

Down,  down,  down. 
Down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea. 
She  sits  at  her  wheel  in  the  humming  town, 
Singing  most  joyfully. 
Hark,  what  she  sings ;  "  O  joy,  O  joy, 
For  the  humming  street,  and  the  child  with  its  toy. 
For  the  priest,  and  the  bell,  and  the  holy  well. 
For  the  wheel  where  I  spun. 
And  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun." 
And  so  she  sings  her  fill, 
Singing  most  joj'fully, 
Till  the  shuttle  falls  from  her  hand. 
And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 
She  steals  to  the  window,  and  looks  at  the  sand; 
And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea ; 
And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare  ; 
And  anon  there  breaks  a  sigh, 
And  anon  there  drops  a  tear, 
From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye, 


THE    FORSAKEN    MERMAN.  189 

And  a  heart  sorrow-laden, 
A  long,  long  sigh. 
For  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little  Mermaiden, 
And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 

Come  away,  away  children. 
Come  children,  come  down. 
The  hoarse  wind  blows  colder  ; 
Lights  shine  in  the  town. 
She  will  start  from  her  slumber 
When  gusts  shake  the  door  ; 
She  will  hear  the  winds  howling. 
Will  hear  the  waves  roar. 
We  shall  see,  while  above  us 
The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 
A  ceiling  of  amber, 
A  pavement  of  pearl. 
Singing,  *'  Here  came  a  mortal, 
But  faithless  was  she. 
And  alone  dwell  forever 
The  kings  of  the  sea." 

But,  children,  at  midnight. 
When  soft  the  winds  blow 
When  clear  falls  the  moonlight ; 
When  spring- tides  are  low ; 
When  sweet  airs  come  seaward 
From  heaths  starr'd  with  broom : 
And  high  rocks  throw  mildly 


140  THE    FORSAKEN    MERMAN. 

On  the  blanch' d  sands  a  gloom  : 
Up  the  still,  glistening  beaches, 
Up  the  creeks  we  will  hie ; 
Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 
The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry. 
We  will  gaze,  from  the  sand-hills, 
At  the  white,  sleeping  town  ; 
At  the  church  on  the  hill-side  — 

And  then  come  back  down. 
Singing,  "  There  dwells  a  lov'd  one, 
But  cruel  is  she. 
She  left  lonely  forever 
The  kings  of  the  sea." 


SWITZERLAND. 
I. 

TO    MY    FRIENDS, 

WHO   RIDICULED  A   TENDEK  LEAVE-TAKING. 


Laugh,  my  Friends,  and  without  blame 

Lightly  quit  what  lightly  came : 

Rich  to-morrow  as  to-day 

Spend  as  madly  as  you  may. 

I,  with  little  land  to  stir. 

Am  the  exacter  laborer. 

Ere  the  parting  kiss  be  dry. 
Quick,  thy  tablets.  Memory ! 

But  my  Youth  reminds  me  —  "  Thou 
Hast  liv'd  light  as  these  live  now : 
As  these  are,  thou  too  wert  such : 
Much  hast  had,  hast  squander' d  much." 
Fortune's  now  less  frequent  heir, 
Ah !  I  husband  what's  grown  rare. 
Ere  the  parting  kiss  be  dry, 
Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory  ! 


142  SWITZERLAND. 

Young,  I  said  :  "  A  face  is  gone 
If  too  hotly  mus'd  upon  : 
And  our  best  impressions  are 
Those  that  do  themselves  repair." 
Many  a  face  I  then  let  by, 
Ah !  is  faded  utterly. 

Ere  the  parting  kiss  be  dry, 
Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory ! 

Marguerite  says  :  "As  last  year  went, 
So  the  coming  year  '11  be  spent : 
Some  day  next  year,  I  shall  be, 
Entering  heedless,  kiss'd  by  thee." 
Ah  !  I  hope  —  yet,  once  away, 
"What  may  chain  us,  who  can  say  ? 
Ere  the  parting  kiss  be  dry. 
Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory  ! 

Paint  that  lilac  kerchief,  bound 
Her  soft  face,  her  hair  around : 
Tied  under  the  archest  chin 
Mockery  ever  ambush'd  in. 
Let  the  fluttering  fringes  streak 
All  her  pale,  sweet-rounded  cheek. 
Ere  the  parting  kiss  be  dry, 
Quick,  thy  tablets.  Memory  ! 

Paint  that  figure's  pliant  grace 
As  she  towards  me  lean'd  her  face. 


swITZEIlLA:^^D.  143 

Half  refus'd  and  half  resign' d 
Murmuring,  "  Art  thou  still  unkind?  " 
Many  a  broken  promise-  then 
Was  new  made  —  to  break  again. 

Ere  the  parting  kiss  be  dry, 

Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory  ! 


Paint  those  eyes,  so  blue,  so  kind, 
Eager  tell-tales  of  her  mind  : 
Paint,  with  their  impetuous  stress 
Of  inquiring  tenderness. 
Those  frank  eyes,  where  deep  doth  lie 
An  angelic  gravity. 

Ere  the  parting  kiss  be  dry. 
Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory ! 

What,  my  Friends,  these  feeble  lines 
Shew,  you  say,  my  love  declines  ? 
To  paint  ill  as  I  have  done, 
Proves  forgetfulness  begun  ? 
Time's  gay  minions,  pleas' d  you  see. 
Time,  your  master,  governs  me. 
Pleas'd,  you  mock  the  fruitless  cry 
"  Quick,  thy  tablets.  Memory ! " 

Ah  !  too  true.     Time's  current  strong 
Leaves  us  true  to  nothing  long. 


144  SWITZERLAND. 

Yet,  if  little  stays  with  man, 
Ah  !  retain  we  all  we  can  ! 
If  the  clear  impression  dies, 
Ah  !  the  dim  remembrance  prize  ! 
Ere  the  parting  kiss  be  dry, 
Quick,  thy  tablets.  Memory ! 


SWITZERLA.ND.  145 


II, 
THE    LA  KE. 

Again  I  see  my  bliss  at  hand ; 
The  town,  the  lake  are  here. 
My  Marguerite  smiles  upon  the  strand 
Unalter'd  with  the  year. 

I  know  that  graceful  figure  fair, 
That  cheek  of  languid  hue  ; 
I  know  that  soft  enkerchief  d  hair, 
And  those  sweet  eyes  of  blue. 

Again  I  spring  to  make  my  choice ; 
Again  in  tones  of  ire 
I  hear  a  God's  tremendous  voice  — 
"  Be  counsell'd,  and  retire  !  " 

Ye  guiding  Powers,  who  join  and  part, 
What  would  ye  have  with  me  ? 
Ah,  warn  some  more  ambitious  heart, 
And  let  the  peaceful  be  ! 


146  SWITZERLAND. 


III. 

A    DREAM. 


Was  it  a  dream  ?     We  sail'd,  I  thouglit  we  sail'd, 
Martin  and  I,  down  a  green  Alpine  stream, 
Under  o'erhanging  pines ;  the  morning  sun. 
On  the  wet  umbrage  of  their  glossy  tops, 
On  the  red  pinings  of  their  forest  floor. 
Drew  a  warm  scent  abroad ;  behind  the  pines 
The  mountain  skirts,  with  all  their  sylvan  change 
Of  bright-leaf 'd  chestnuts,  and  moss'd  walnut-trees, 
And  the  frail  scarlet-berried  ash,  began. 
Swiss  chalets  glitter' d  on  the  dewy  slopes. 
And  from  some  swarded  shelf  high  up,  there  came, 
Notes  of  wild  pastoral  music :  over  all 
Rang'd,  diamond-bright,  the  eternal  wall  of  snow. 
Upon  the  mossy  rocks  at  the  stream's  edge, 
Back'd  by  the  pines,  a  plank-built  cottage  stood, 
Bright  in  the  sun  ;  the  climbing  gourd-plant's  leaves 
Muffled  its  walls,  and  on  the  stone-strewn  roof 
Lay  the  warm  golden  gourds  ;  golden,  within. 
Under  the  eaves,  peer'd  rows  of  Indian  corn. 
We  shot  beneath  the  cottage  with  the  stream. 
On  the  brown  rude-carv'd  balcony  two  Forms 
Came  forth  —  Olivia's,  Marguerite!  and  thine. 


SWITZERLAND.  147 

Clad  were  they  both  in  white,  flowers  in  their  breasts  ; 
Straw  hats  bedeck' d  their  heads,  with  ribbons  blue 
Which  wav'd,  and  on  their  shoulders  fluttering  play'd. 
They  saw  us,  they  conferred  ;  their  bosoms  heav'd, 
And  more  than  mortal  impulse  fill'd  their  eyes. 
Their  lips  mov'd  ;  their  white  arms,  wav'd  eagerly, 
Flash'd  once,  like  falling  streams :  —  we  rose,  we  gaz'd : 
One  moment,  on  the  rapid's  top,  our  boat 
Hung  pois'd  —  and  then  the  darting  River  of  Life, 
Loud  thundering,  bore  us  by :   swift,  swift  it  foam'd ; 
Black  under  clifl's  it  rac'd,  round  headlands  shone. 
Soon  the  plank'd  cottage  'mid  the  sun-warm'd  pines 
Faded,  the  moss,  the  rocks  ;  us  burning  Plains 
Bristled  with  cities,  us  the  Sea  receiv'd. 


148  SWITZERLAND. 


IV. 
PARTING. 

Ye  storm- winds  of  Autumn 
Who  rush  by,  who  shake 
The  window,  and  ruffle 
The  gleam-lighted  lake  ; 
.  Who  cross  to  the  hill-side 
Thin-sprinkled  with  farms, 
Where  the  high  woods  strip  sadly 
Their  yellowing  arms  ;  — 

Ye  are  bound  for  the  mountains  — 
Ah,  with  you  let  me  go 
Where  your  cold  distant  barrier, 
The  vast  range  of  snow, 
Through  the  loose  clouds  lifts  dimly 
Its  white  peaks  in  air  — 
How  deep  is  their  stillness  ! 
Ah !  would  I  were  there ! 

But  on  the  stairs  what  voice  is  this  I  hear, 
Buoyant  as  ijiorning,  and  as  morning  clear  ? 
Say,  has  some  wet  bird-haunted  English  la^vn 
Lent  it  the  music  of  its  trees  at  dawn  ? 


SWITZEKLAND.  149 

Or  was  it  from  some  sun-fleck' d  mountain-brook 
That  the  sweet  voice  its  upland  clearness  took  ? 
,    Ah !  it  comes  nearer  — 
Sweet  notes  this  way ! 

Hark  !  fast  by  the  window 
The  rushing  winds  go, 
To  the  ice-cumber'd  gorges, 
The  vast  seas  of  snow. 
There  the  torrents  drive  upward 
Their  rock-strangled  hum, 
There  the  avalanche  thunders 
The  hoarse  torrent  dumb. 
—  I  come,  0  ye  mountains ! 
Ye  torrents,  I  come  ! 

But  who  is  this,  by  the  half-open'd  door, 
Whose  figure  casts  a  shadow  on  the  floor  ? 
The  sweet  blue  eyes  —  the  soft,  ash- color' d  hair  — 
The  cheeks  that  still  their  gentle  paleness  wear  — 
The  lovely  lips,  with  their  arch  smile,  that  tells 
The  unconquer'd  joy  in  yhich  her  spirit  dwells  — 

Ah  !  they  bend  nearer  — 

Sweet  lips,  this  way ! 

Hark  !  the  wind  rushes  past  us  — 
Ah  !  with  that  let  me  go 
To  the  clear  waning  hill-side 
TJns-potted  by  snow, 


150'  SWITZERLAND. 

There  to  watch,  o'er  the  sunk  vale, 

The  frore  mountain  wall. 

Where  the  nich'd  snow-bed  sprays  down 

Its  powdery  fall. 

There  its  dusky  blue  clusters 

The  aconite  spreads ; 

There  the  pines  slope,  the  cloud-strips 

Hung  soft  in  their  heads. 

No  life  but,  at  moments. 

The  mountain-bee's  hum. 

—  I  come,  O  ye  mountains  ! 

Ye  pine-woods,  I  come  ! 

Forgive  me  !  forgive  me  ! 

Ah,  Marguerite,  fain 
Would  these  arms  reach  to  clasp  thee :  — 

But  see  !  'tis  in  vain. 

In  the  void  air  towards  thee 
My  strain' d  arms  are  cast. 

But  a  sea  rolls  between  us — 
Our  different  past. 

To  the  lips,  ah  !  of  others. 
Those  lips  have  been  prest. 

And  others,  ere  I  was. 

Were  clasp' d  to  that  breast; 


SWITZERLAND  151 

Far,  far  from  each  other 

Our  spirits  have  grown. 
And  what  heart  knows  another? 

Ah !  who  knows  his  own  ? 

Blow,  ye  winds  !  lift  me  with  you ! 

I  come  to  the  wild. 
Fold  closely,  O  Nature  ! 

Thine  arms  round  thy  child. 

To  thee  only  God  granted 

A  heart  ever  new : 
To  all  always  open ; 

To  all  always  true. 

Ah,  calm  me !  restore  me  ! 

And  dry  up  my  tears 
On  thy  high  mountain  platforms. 

Where  Morn  first  appears, 

Where  the  white  mists,  forever, 

Are  spread  and  upfurl'd ; 
In  the  stir  of  the  forces 

Whence  issued  the  world. 


152  SWITZERLAND. 


V. 

TO     MARGUERITE 


Yes  :  in  the  sea  of  life  enisl'd, 
With  echoing  straits  between  us  thrown, 
Dotting  the  shoreless  watery  wild, 
We  mortal  millions  live  alone. 

The  islands  feel  the  enclasping  flow, 
And  then  their  endless  bounds  they  know. 

But  when  the  moon  their  hollows  lights 
And  they  are  swept  by  balms  of  spring. 
And  in  their  glens,  on  starry  nights, 
The  nightingales  divinely  sing. 
And  lovely  notes,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Across  the  sounds  and  channels  pour ; 

Oh  then  a  longing  like  despair 

Is  to  their  farthest  caverns  sent ; 

—  For  surely  once,  they  feel  we  were 

Parts  of  a  single  continent. 

Now  round  us  spreads  the  watery  plain  — 

Oh  might  our  marges  meet  again  ! 


SWITZERLAND.  153 

Who  order'd,  that  their  longing's  fire 
Should  be,  as  soon  as  kindled,  cool'd  ? 
Who  renders  vain  their  deep  desire  ?  — 
A  God,  a  God  their  severance  rul'd ; 
And  bade  betwixt  their  shores  to  be 
The  unplumb'd,  salt,  estranging  sea. 


10 


154  SWITZERLAND. 

VI. 

ABSENCE. 

In  this  fair  stranger's  eyes  of  gray 
Thine  eyes,  my  love,  I  see. 
I  shudder  :  for  the  passing  day 
Had  borne  me  far  from  thee. 

This  is  the  curse  of  life :  that  not 
A  nobler  calmer  train 
Of  wiser  thoughts  and  feelings  blot 
Our  passions  from  our  brain  ; 

But  each  day  brings  its  petty  dust 
Our  soon-chok'd  souls  to  fill. 
And  we  forget  because  we  must, 
And  not  because  we  will. 

I  struggle  towards  the  light ;  and  ye, 
Once  long'd-for  storms  of  love  ! 
If  with  the  light  ye  cannot  be, 
I  bear  that  ye  remove. 

I  struggle  towards  the  light ;  but  oh, 
"While  yet  the  night  is  chill. 
Upon  Time's  barren,  stormy  flow, 
Stay  with  me,  Marguerite,  still ! 


RICHMOND   Hill 


Murmur  of  living ! 
Stir  of  existence  ! 
Soul  of  the  world  ! 

Make,  oh.  make  yourselves  felt 
To  the  dying  Spirit  of  Youth ! 
Come,  like  the  breath  of  the  Spring  ! 
Leave  not  a  human  soul 
To  grow  old  in  darkness  and  pain. 

Only  the  living  can  feel  you, 
But  leave  us  not  while  we  live  ! 


A  MODERN  SAPPHO 


They  are  gone  :  all  is  still :  Foolish  heart  dost  thou 

quiver  ? 
Nothing  moves  on  the  lawn  but  the  quick  lilac  shade. 
Far  up  gleams  the  house,  and  beneath  flows  the  river. 
Here  lean,  my  head,  on  this  cool  balustrade. 


Ere  he  come  :    ere  the  boat,  by  the  shining-branch' d 

border 
Of  dark  elms  come  round,  dropping  down  the  proud 

stream ; 
Let  me  pause,  let  me  strive,  in  myself  find  some  order, 
Ere  their  boat-music  sound,   ere  their  broider'd  flags 

gleam. 

Is  it  hope  makes  me  linger  ?    the  dim  thought,  that 

sorrow 
Means  parting  ?  that  only  in  absence  lies  pain  ? 
It  was  well  with  me  once  if  I  saw  him  :  to-morrow 
May  bring  one  of  the  old  happy  moments  again. 


A    MODEKN    SAPPHO.  157 

Last  night  we  stood  earnestly  talking  together  — 
She  enter'd  —  that  moment  his  eyes  turn'd  from  me. 
Fasten' d  on  her  dark  hair  and  her  wreath  of  white 

heather  — 
As  yesterday  was,  so  to-morrow  will  he. 

Their  love,  let  me  know,  must  grow  strong  and  yet 

stronger. 
Their  passion  hurn  more,  ere  it  ceases  to  hum : 
They  must  love  —  while  they  must :  But  the  hearts  that 

love  longer 
Are  rare  :  ah  !  most  loves  but  flow  once,  and  return. 

I  shall  suffer  ;  but  they  will  outlive  their  affection : 
I  shall  weep  ;  but  their  love  will  be  cooling  :  and  he. 
As  he  drifts  to  fatigue,  discontent,  and  dejection. 
Will  be  brought,  thou  poor  heart !  how  much  nearer  to 
thee ! 

For  cold  is  his  eye  to  mere  beauty,  who,  breaking 
The  strong  band  which  beauty  around  him  hath  furl'd, 
Disenchanted  by  habit,  and  newly  awaking, 
Looks  languidly  round  on  a  gloom-buried  world. 

Through  that  gloom  he  will  see  but  a  shadow  appearing. 
Perceive  but  a  voice  as  I  come  to  his  side  : 
But  deeper  their  voice  grows,  and  nobler  their  bearing. 
Whose  youth  in  the  fires  of  anguish  hath  died. 


158  A   MODERN    SAPPHO. 

Then  —  to  wait.    But  what  notes  down  the  wind,  hark 

are  driving? 
'Tis  he  !  'tis  the  boat,  shooting  round  by  the  trees  ! 
Let  my  turn,  if  it  will  come,  be  swift  in  arriving  ! 
Ah  !  hope  cannot  long  lighten  torments  like  these. 

Hast  thou  yet  dealt  him,  O  Life,  thy  full  measure  ? 
World,  have  thy  children  yet  bow'd  at  his  knee  ? 
Hast  thou  with  myrtle-leaf  crown'd  him,  O  Pleasure  ? 
Crown,  crown  him  quickly,  and  leave  him  for  me. 


REaUIESCAT. 


Stbew  on  her  roses,  roses, 
And  never  a  spray  of  yew. 

In  quiet  she  reposes  : 

Ah !  would  that  I  did  too. 

Her  mirth  the  world  required : 
She  bath'd  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 

But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired, 
And  now  they  let  her  be. 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning. 
In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound. 

But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning, 
And  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

Her  cabin'd,  ample  Spirit, 

It  flutter' d  and  fail'd  for  breath. 

To-night  it  doth  inherit 
The  vasty  Hall  of  Death. 


**  There  was  very  lately  a  lad  in  the  University  of  Oxford,  wlio 
was  by  his  poverty  forced  to  leave  his  studies  there  ;  and  at  last  to 
join  himself  to  a  company  of  vagabond  gipsies.  Among  these  ex- 
travagant people,  by  the  insinuating  subtilty  of  his  carriage,  he 
quickly  got  so  much  of  their  love  and  esteem  as  that  they  dis- 
covered to  him  their  mystery.  After  he  had  been  a  pretty  while 
well  exercised  in  the  trade,  there  chanced  to  ride  by  a  couple  of 
scholars,  who  had  formerly  been  of  his  acquaintance.  They 
quickly  spied  out  their  old  friend  among  the  gipsies  ;  and  he 
gave  them  an  account  of  the  necessity  which  drove  him  to  that 
kind  of  life,  and  told  them  that  the  people  he  went  with  were  not 
such  impostors  as  they  were  taken  for,  but  that  they  had  a  tradi- 
tional kind  of  learning  among  them,  and  could  do  wonders  by  the 
power  of  imagination,  their  fancy  binding  that  of  others :  that 
himself  had  learned  much  of  their  art,  and  when  he  had  compassed 
the  whole  secret,  he  intended,  he  said,  to  leave  their  company,  and 
give  the  world  an  account  of  what  he  had  learned." —  GlanviVs 
Vanity  of  Dogmatizing,  1661. 


THE    SCHOLAR    GIPSY, 


Go,  for  they  call  you,  Shepherd,  from  the  hill ; 
Go,  Shepherd,  and  untie  the  wattled  cotes : 

No  longer  leave  thy  wistful  flock  unfed, 
Nor  let  thy  bawling  fellows  rack  their  throats. 
Nor  the  cropp'd  grasses  shoot  another  head. 
But  when  the  fields  are  still, 
And  the  tired  men  and  dogs  all  gone  to  rest. 
And  only  the  white  sheep  are  sometimes  seen 
Cross  and  recross  the  strips  of  moon-blanch'd  green : 
Come,  Shepherd,  and  again  renew  the  quest. 

Here,  where  the  reaper  was  at  work  of  late, 

In  this  high  field's  dark  corner,  where  he  leaves 

His  coat,  his  basket,  and  his  earthern  cruise. 
And  in  the  sun  all  morning  binds  the  sheaves. 
Then  here,  at  noon,  comes  back  his  stores  to  use ; 
Here  will  I  sit  and  wait, 
While  to  my  ear  from  uplands  far  away 
The  bleating  of  the  folded  flocks  is  borne ; 
With  distant  cries  of  reapers  in  the  corn  — 
All  the  live  murmur  of  a  summer's  day. 


162  THE    SCHOLAR    GIPSY. 

Screen'd  in  tHis  nook  o'er  the  high,  half-reap'd  field, 
And  here  till  sun-down,  Shepherd,  will  I  be. 

Through  the  thick  corn  the  scarlet  poppies  peep, 
And  round  green  roots  and  yellowing  stalks  I  see 
Pale  blue  convolvulus  in  tendrils  creep : 
And  air-swept  lindens  yield 
Their  scent,  and  rustle  down  their  perfum'd  showers 
Of  bloom  on  the  bent  grass  where  I  am  laid, 
And  bower  me  from  the  August  sun  with  shade ; 
And  the  eye  travels  down  to  Oxford's  towers  : 

And  near  me  on  the  grass  lies  Glanvil's  book  — 
Come,  let  me  read  the  oft-read  tale  again. 

The  story  of  that  Oxford  scholar  poor, 
Of  pregnant  parts  and  quick  inventive  brain, 
Who,  tir'd  of  knocking  at  Preferment's  door, 
One  summer  morn  forsook 
His  friends,  and  went  to  learn  the  Gipsy  lore, 

And  roam'd  the  world  with  that  wild  brotherhood, 
And  came,  as  most  men  deem'd,  to  little  good. 
But  came  to  Oxford  and  his  friends  no  more. 

But  once,  years  after,  in  the  country  lanes. 
Two  scholars  whom  at  college  erst  he  knew 
Met  him,  and  of  his  way  of  life  inquir'd. 
"Whereat  he  answer'd,  that  the  Gipsy  crew, 
His  mates,  had  arts  to  rule  as  they  desired 
The  workings  of  men's  brains ; 


THE    SCHOLAB    GIPSY.  163 

And  they  can  bind  them  to  what  thoughts  they  will : 
"  And  I,"  he  said,  "  the  secret  of  their  art, 
When  fully  learn' d,  will  to  the  world  impart : 
But  it  needs  happy  moments  for  this  skill." 

This  said,  he  left  them,  and  return'd  no  more, 
But  rumors  hung  about  the  country  side 

That  the  lost  scholar  long  was  seen  to  stray, 
Seen  by  rare  glimpses,  pensive  and  tongue-tied. 
In  hat  of  antique  shape,  and  cloak  of  gray, 
The  same  the  Gipsies  wore. 
Shepherds  had  met  him  on  the  Hurst  in  Spring : 
At  some  lone  alehouse  in  the  Berkshire  moors, 
On  the  warm  ingle  bench,  the  smock-frock' d  boors 
Had  found  him  seated  at  their  entering, 

But,  mid  their  drink  and  clatter,  he  would  fly : 
And  I  myself  seem  half  to  know  thy  looks. 

And  put  the  shepherds.  Wanderer,  on  thy  trace  ; 
And  boys  who  in  lone  wheatfields  scare  the  rooks 
I  ask  if  thou  hast  pass'd  their  quiet  place  ; 
Or  in  my  boat  I  lie 
Moor'd  to  the  cool  bank  in  the  summer  heats, 

Mid  wide  grass  meadows  which  the  sunshine  fills, 

And  watch  the  warm  green-muffled  Cumner  hills. 

And  wonder  if  thou  haunt' st  their  shy  retreats. 

For  most,  I  know,  thou  lov'st  retired  ground. 
Thee,  at  the  ferry,  Oxford  riders  blithe, 


164  THE    SCHOLAR    GIPSY. 

Returning  home  on  summer  nights,  have  met, 
Crossing  the  stripling  Thames  at  Bab-lock-hithe, 
Trailing  in  the  cool  stream  thy  fingers  wet, 
As  the  slow  punt  swings  round  : 
And  leaning  backwards  in  a  pensive  dream, 
And  fostering  in  thy  lap  a  heap  of  flowers 
Pluck' d  in  shy  fields  and  distant  woodland  bowers, 
And  thine  eyes  resting  on  the  moonlit  stream. 

And,  then  they  land,  and  thou  art  seen  no  more. 
Maidens  who  from  the  distant  hamlets  come 
To  dance  around  the  Fyfield  elm  in  May, 
Oft  through  the  darkening  fields  have  seen  thee  roam, 
Or  cross  a  stile  into  the  public  way. 
Oft  thou  hast  given  them  store 
Of  flowers  —  the  frail-leaf 'd,  white  anemone  — 
Dark  bluebells  drench'd  with   dews   of  summer 

eves  — 
And  purple  orchises  with  spotted  leaves  — 
But  none  has  words  she  can  report  of  thee. 

And,  above  Godstow  Bridge,  when  hay-time's  here 
In  June,  and  many  a  scythe  in  sunshine  flames. 

Men  who  through  those  wide  fields  of  breezy  grass 
Where   black- wing' d  swallows  haunt  the   glittering 
Thames, 
To  bathe  in  the  abandon' d  lasher  pass, 
Have  often  pass'd  thee  near 


THE    SCHOLAR    GIPSY.  165 

Sitting  upon  the  river  bank  o'ergrown : 

Mark'd  tlay  outlandish  garb,  thy  figure  spare, 
Thy  dark  vague  eyes,  and  soft  abstracted  air ; 
But,  when  they  came  from  bathing,  thou  wert 

gone. 

« 

At  some  lone  homestead  in  the  Cumner  hills, 
Where  at  her  open  do6r  the  housewife  darns, 
Thou  hast  been  seen,  or  hanging  on  a  gate 
To  watch  the  threshers  in  the  mossy  barns. 

Children,  who  early  range  these  slopes  and  late 
For  cresses  from  the  rills, 
Have  known  thee  watching,  all  an  April  day. 
The  springing  pastures  and  the  feeding  kine ; 
And  mark'd  thee,  when  the  stars  come  out  and 
shine, 
Through  the  long  dewy  grass  move  slow  away. 

In  Autumn,  on  the  skirts  of  Bagley  wood, 

Where  most  the  Gipsies  by  the  turf-edg'd  way 

Pitch  their  smok'd  tents,  and  every  bush  you  see 
With  scarlet  patches  tagg'd  and  shreds  of  gray. 
Above  the  forest  ground  call'd  Thessaly  — 
The  blackbird  picking  food 
Sees  thee,  nor  stops  his  meal,  nor  fears  at  all ; 
So  often  has  he  known  thee  past  him  stray 
Rapt,  twirling  in  thy  hand  a  wither'd  spray. 
And  waiting  for  the  spark  from  Heaven  to  fall. 


166  THE    SCHOLAK    GIPSY. 

And  once,  in  winter,  on  the  causeway  cTiill 

Where  home  through  flooded  fields  foot-travellers  go 

Have  I  not  pass'd  thee  on  the  wooden  bridge 
Wrapt  in  thy  cloak  and  battling  with  the  snow, 
Thy  face  towards  Hinksey  and  its  wintry  ridge  ? 
And  thou  hast  climb' d  the  hill 
And  gain'd  the  white  brow  of  the  Cumner  range, 
Turn'd  once  to  watch,  while  thick  the  snow-flakes 

fall, 
The  line  of  festal  light  in  Christ-Church  hall  — 
Then   sought   thy   straw   in   some   sequester'd 
grange. 

But  what  —  I  dream  !     Two  hundred  years  are  flown 
Since  first  thy  story  ran  through  Oxford  halls. 
And  the  grave  Glanvil  did  the  tale  inscribe 
That  thou  wert  wander' d  from  the  studious  walls 
To  learn  strange  arts,  and  join  a  Gipsy  tribe  : 
And  thou  from  earth  art  gone 
Long  since,  and  in  some  quiet  churchyard  laid ; 

Some  country  nook,  where  o'er  thy  unknown  grave 
Tall  grasses  and  white  flowering  nettles  wave  — 
Under  a  dark  red-fruited  yew-tree's  shade. 

—  No,  no,  thou  hast  not  felt  the  lapse  of  hours. 
For  what  wears  out  the  life  of  mortal  men  ? 

'Tis  that  from  change  to  change  their  being  rolls : 
'Tis  that  repeated  shocks,  again,  again, 
Exhaust  the  energy  of  strongest  souls, 
And  numb  the  elastic  powers. 


THE    SCHOLAR    GIPSY.  167 

Till  having  us'd  our  nerves  with  bliss  and  teen, 
And  tir'd  upon  a  thousand  schemes  our  wit, 
To  the  just-pausing  Genius  we  remit 

Our  worn-out  life,  and  are  —  what  we  have  been. 


Thou  hast  not  liv'd,  why  should' st  thou  perish,  so  ? 
Thou  hadst  one  aim,  one  business,  one  desire : 

Else  wert  thou  long  since  number'd  with  the  dead  — 
Else  hadst  thou  spent  like  other  men,  thy  fire. 
The  generations  of  thy  peers  are  fled, 
And  we  ourselves  shall  go ; 
But  thou  possessest  an  immortal  lot, 
And  we  imagine  thee  exempt  from  age 
And  living  as  thou  liv'st  on  Glanvil's  page, 

Because  thou  hadst  —  what  we,  alas,  have  not ! 


For  early  didst  thou  leave  the  world,  with  powers 
Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without. 

Firm  to  their  mark,  not  spent  on  other  things ; 
Free  from  the  sick  fatigue,  the  languid  doubt. 

Which  much  to  have  tried,  in  much  been  baffled, 
brings. 
O  Life  unlike  to  ours  ! 
Who  fluctuate  idly  without  term  or  scope, 

Of  whom  each   strives,  nor   knows   for  what  he 

strives. 
And  each  half  lives  a  hundred  diffierent  lives  ; 
Who  wait  like  thee,  but  not,  like  thee,  in  hope. 


168  THE    SCHOLAK    GIPSY. 

Thou  waitest  for  the  spark  from  Heaven :  and  we, 
Light  half-believers  of  our  casual  creeds, 

"Who  never  deeply  felt,  nor  clearly  will'd. 
Whose  insight  never  has  borne  fruit  in  deeds, 
Whose  vague  resolves  never  have  been  fulfill' d  ; 
From  whom  each  year  we  see 
Breeds  new  beginnings,  disappointments  new  ; 
Who  hesitate  and  falter  life  away. 
And  lose  to-morrow  the  ground  won  to-day  — 
Ah,  do  not  we.  Wanderer,  await  it  too  ? 

Yes,  we  await  it,  but  it  still  delays. 

And  then  we  suffer  ;  and  amongst  us  One, 
Who  most  has  suffer' d,  takes  dejectedly 
His  seat  upon  the  intellectual  throne  ; 
And  all  his  store  of  sad  experience  he 
Lays  bare  of  wretched  days  ; 
Tells  us  his  misery's  birth  and  growth  and  signs, 
And  how  the  dying  spark  of  hope  was  fed. 
And  how  the  breast  was  sooth' d,  and  how  the  head, 
And  all  his  hourly  varied  anodynes. 

This  for  our  wisest ;  and  we  others  pine, 

And  wish  the  long  unhappy  dream  would  end. 

And  waive  all  claim  to  bliss,  and  try  to  bear 

With  close-lipp'd  Patience  for  our  only  friend. 

Sad  Patience,  too  near  neighbor  to  Despair  : 

But  none  has  hope  like  thine. 


THE    SCHOLAR    GIPSY.  169 

Thou  through  the  fields  and  through  the  woods  dost 
stray, 
Roaming  the  country  side,  a  truant  boy, 
Nursing  thy  project  in  unclouded  joy, 

And  every  doubt  long  blown  by  time  away. 


O  born  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and  clear, 
And  life  ran  gaily  as  the  sparkling  Thames ; 
Before  this  strange  disease  of  modern  life, 
With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims. 

Its  heads  o'ertax'd,  its  palsied  hearts,  was  rife  — 
Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear  ! 
Still  fly,  plunge  deeper  in  the  bowering  wood  !  - 
Averse,  as  Dido  did  with  gesture  stern 
From  her  false  friend's  approach  in  Hades  turn, 
Wave  us  away,  and  keep  thy  solitude. 

Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope, 
Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade. 

With  a  free  onward  impulse  brushing  through. 
By  night,  the  silver' d  branches  of  the  glade  — 
Far  on  the  forest  skirts,  where  none  pursue, 
On  some  mild  pastoral  slope 
Emerge,  and  resting  on  the  moonlit  pales. 
Freshen  thy  flowers,  as  in  former  years, 
With  dew  or  listen  with  enchanted  ears. 
From  the  dark  dingles,  to  the  nightingales. 
11 


170  THE    SCHOLAR    GIPSY. 

But  fly  our  paths,  our  feverish  contact  fly  ! 
For  strong  the  infection  of  our  mental  strife, 

Which,  though  it  gives  no  bliss,  yet  spoils  for  rest ; 
And  we  should  win  thee  from  thy  own  fair  life, 
Like  us  distracted,  and  like  us  unblest. 
Soon,  soon  thy  cheer  would  die. 
Thy  hopes  grow  timorous,  and  unfix'd  thy  powers. 
And  thy  clear  aims  be  cross  and  shifting  made  : 
And  then  thy  glad  perennial  youth  would  fade. 
Fade,  and  grow  old  at  last  and  die  like  ours. 

Then  fly  our  greetings,  fly  our  speech  and  smiles ! 
—  As  some  grave  Tyrian  trader,  from  the  sea, 

Descried  at  sunrise  an  emerging  prow 
Lifting  the  cool-hair'd  creepers  stealthily. 
The  fringes  of  a  southward-facing  brow 
Among  the  ^gean  isles  ; 
And  saw  the  merry  Grecian  coaster  come. 

Freighted  with  amber  grapes,  and  Chian  wine. 
Green  bursting  figs,  and  tunnies  steep' d  in  brine  ; 
And  knew  the  intruders  on  his  ancient  home, 


The  young  light-hearted  Masters  of  the  waves  ; 
And  snatch' d  his  rudder,  and  shook  out  more  sail. 

And  day  and  night  held  on  indignantly 
O'er  the  blue  Midland  waters  with  the  gale, 
Betwixt  the  Syrtes  and  soft  Sicily, 
To  where  the  Atlantic  raves 


THE    SCHOLAR    GIPSY.  171 

Outside  the  Western  Straits,  and  unbent  sails 

There,  where  down  cloudy  cliffs,  through  sheets  of 

foam, 
Shy  traffickers,  the  dark  Iberians  come  ; 
And  on  the  beach  undid  his  corded  bales. 


SONNETS. 
I. 

TO  A  FRIEND. 


Who  prop,  thou  ask'st,  in  these  bad  days,  my  mind  ? 
He  much,  the  old  man,  who,  clearest-soul'd  of  men, 
Saw  The  Wide  Prospect,*  and  the  Asian  Fen, 
And  Tmolus'  hill,  and  Smyrna's  bay,  though  blind, 
Much  he,  whose  friendship  I  not  long  since  won, . 
That  halting  slave,  who  in  Nicopolis 
Taught  Arrian,  when  Vespasian's  brutal  son 
Clear'd  Rome  of  what  most  sham'd  him.     But  be  his 
My  special  thanks,  whose  even-balanc'd  soul. 
From  first  youth  tested  up  to  extreme  old  age, 
Business  could  not  make  dull,  nor  Passion  wild : 
Who  saw  life  steadily,  and  saw  it  whole : 
The  mellow  glory  of  the  Attic  stage  ; 
Singer  of  sweet  Colonus,  and  its  child. 


SONNETS. 


173 


II. 

SHAKSPEARE. 


Others  abide  our  question.     Thou  art  free. 
We  ask  and  ask  :  Thou  smilest  and  art  still, 
Out-topping  knowledge.     For  the  loftiest  hill 
That  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty, 
Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea. 
Making  the  Heaven  of  Heavens  his  dwelling-place, 
Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 
To  the  foil'd  searching  of  mortality  : 
And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sunbeams  know, 
Self-school' d,  self-scann'd,  self-honor' d,  self-secure 
Didst  walk  on  Earth  unguess'd  at.     Better  so  ! 
All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure. 
All  weakness  that  impairs,  all  griefs  that  bow, 
Find  their  sole  voice  in  that  victorious  brow. 


174  SONNETS. 


III. 


"  O  MONSTROUS,  dead,  unprofitable  world, 
That  thou  canst  hear,  and  hearing,  hold  thy  way. 
A  voice  oracular  hath  peal'd  to-day, 
To-day  a  hero's  banner  is  unfurl'd. 
Hast  thou  no  lip  for  welcome  ?  "     So  I  said. 
Man  after  man,  the  world  smil'd  and  pass'd  by : 
A  smile  of  wistful  incredulity 
As  though  one  spake  of  noise  unto  the  dead : 
Scornful,  and  strange,  and  sorrowful ;  and  full 
Of  bitter  knowledge.     Yet  the  "Will  is  free  : 
Strong  is  the  Soul,  and  wise,  and  beautiful : 
The  seeds  of  Godlike  power  are  in  us  still : 
Gods  are  we.  Bards,  Saints,  Heroes,  if  we  will.  - 
Dumb  judges,  answer,  truth  or  mockery  ? 


SONNETS.  175 


IV. 

TO    GEORGE   CRUIKSHANK,    ESQ. 

ON   SEEING   FOR   THE  FIRST   TIME   HIS   PICTURE   OF   "  THE   BOTTLE, 
IN   THE   COUNTRY. 


Aktist,  whose  hand,  with  horror  wing'd,  hath  torn 

From  the  rank  life  of  towns  this  leaf:  and  flung 

The  prodigy  of  full-blown  crime  among 

Valleys  and  men  to  middle  fortune  born, 

Not  innocent,  indeed,  yet  not  forlorn  : 

Say,  what  shall  calm  us,  when  such  guests  intrude, 

Like  comets  on  the  heavenly  solitude  ? 

Shall  breathless  glades,  cheer'd  by  shy  Dian's  horn, 

Cold-bubbling  springs,  or  caves  ?    Not  so  !    The  Soul 

Breasts  her  own  griefs  :  and,  urg'd  too  fiercely,  says  : 

"  Why  tremble  ?     True,  the  nobleness  of  man 

May  be  by  man  effac'd  :  man  can  control 

To  pain,  to  death,  the  bent  of  his  own  days. 

Know  thou  the  worst.     So  much,  not  more,  he  can." 


176 


SONNETS. 


V. 

TO   A   REPUBLICAN  FRIEND.     1S48. 


God  knows  it,  I  am  with  you.     If  to  prize 
Those  virtues,  priz'd  and  practis'd  by  too  few. 
But  priz'd,  but  lov'd,  but  eminent  in  you, 
Man's  fundamental  life  :  if  to  despise 
The  barren  optimistic  sophistries 
Of  comfortable  moles,  whom  what  they  do 
Teaches  the  limit  of  the  just  and  true  —    • 
And  for  such  doing  have  no  need  of  eyes : 
If  sadness  at  the  long  heart- wasting  show 
Wherein  earth's  great  ones  are  disquieted  : 
If  thoughts,  not  idle,  while  before  me  flow 
The  armies  of  the  homeless  and  unfed  :  — 
If  these  are  yours,  if  this  is  what  your  are, 
Then  am  I  yours,  and  what  you  feel,  I  share. 


SONNETS.  177 


.VI. 

CONTINUED. 


Yet,  wlien  I  muse  on  wliat  life  is,  I  seem 
Rather  to  patience  prompted,  than  that  proud 
Prospect  of  hope  which  France  proclaims  so  loud, 
France,  fam'd  in  all  great  arts,  in  none  supreme. 
Seeing  this  Vale,  this  Earth,  whereon  we  dream. 
Is  on  all  sides  o'ershadow'd  by  the  high 
Uno'erleap'd  Mountains  of  Necessity, 
Sparing  us  narrower  margin  than  we  deem. 
Nor  will  that  day  dawn  at  a  human  nod. 
When,  bursting  through  the  network  superpos'd 
By  selfish  occupation  —  plot  and  plan. 
Lust,  avarice,  envy  —  liberated  man, 
All  difference  with  his  fellow-man  composed, 
Shall  be  left  standing  face  to  face  with  God. 


178  SONNETS. 


VII. 
RELIGIOUS     ISOLATION. 


TO   TELE  SAME. 


Childken  (as  such  forgive  them)  have  I  known, 
Ever  in  their  own  eager  pastime  bent 
To  make  the  incurious  bystander,  intent 
On  his  own  swarming  thoughts,  an  interest  own ; 
Too  fearful  or  too  fond  to  play  alone. 
Do  thou,  whom  light  in  thine  own  inmost  soul 
(Not  less  thy  boast)  illuminates,  control 
Wishes  unworthy  of  a  man  full-grown. 
What  though  the  holy  secret  which  moulds  thee 
Moulds  not  the  solid  Earth  ?  though  never  Winds 
Have  whisper' d  it  to  the  complaining  Sea, 
Nature's  great  law,  and  law  of  all  men's  minds  ? 
To  its  own  impulse  every  creature  stirs : 
Live  by  thy  light,  and  Earth  will  live  by  hers. 


SONNETS.  179 


VIII. 
THE  world's  triumphs. 


So  far  as  I  conceive  the  "World's  rebuke 
To  him  address' d  who  would  recast  her  new, 
Not  from  herself  her  fame  of  strength  she  took, 
But  from  their  weakness,  who  would  work  her  rue. 

"  Behold,"  she  cries,  "  so  many  rages  luU'd, 
So  many  fiery  spirits  quite  cool'd  down : 
Look  how  so  many  valors,  long  undull'd, 
After  short  commerce  with  me,  fear  my  frown. 
Thou  too,  when  thou  against  my  crimes  wouldst  cry. 
Let  thy  foreboded  homage  check  thy  tongue."  — 
The  World  speaks  well :  yet  might  her  foe  reply  — 

"  Are  wills  so  weak  ?  then  let  not  mine  wait  long. 
Hast  thou  so  rare  a  poison  ?  let  me  be 
Keener  to  slay  thee,  lest  thou  poison  me." 


STANZAS 


X 


IN  MEMORY   OP  THE  LATE  EDWARD   QUILLINAN,   ESQ* 


I  SAW  him  sensitive  in  frame, 

I  knew  his  spirits  low ; 
And  wish'd  him  health,  success,  and  fame 

I  do  not  wish  it  now. 

For  these  are  all  their  own  reward. 

And  leave  no  good  behind ; 
They  try  us,  oftenest  make  us  hard. 

Less  modest,  pure,  and  kind. 

Alas !  Yet  to  the  suffering  man, 

In  this  his  mortal  state. 
Friends  could  not  give  what  fortune  can  — 

Health,  ease,  a  heart  elate. 

But  he  is  now  by  Fortune  foil'd 

No  more ;  and  we  retain 
The  memory  of  a  man  unspoil'd,' 

Sweet,  generous,  and  humane ; 


STANZAS.  181 

With  all  the  fortunate  have  not  — 

With  gentle  voice  and  brow. 
Alive,  we  would  have  chang'd  his  lot : 

We  would  not  change  it  now. 


MORALITY 


We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 
The  fire  that  in  the  heart  resides, 
The  spirit  hloweth  and  is  still, 
In  mystery  our  soul  abides  ; 

But  tasks  in  hours  of  insight  will'd 
Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfill' d. 

With  aching  hands  and  bleeding  feet 
We  dig  and  heap,  lay  stone  on  stone ; 
We  bear  the  burden  and  the  heat 
Of  the  long  day,  and  wish  'twere  done. 

Not  till  the  hours  of  light  return 
All  we  have  built  do  we  discern. 

Then,  when  the  clouds  are  oS  the  soul, 
When  thou  dost  bask  in  Nature's  eye, 
Ask,  how  she  view'd  thy  self-control. 
Thy  struggling  task'd  morality. 

Nature,  whose  free,  light,  cheerful  air, 
Oft  made  thee,  in  thy  gloom,  despair. 


MORALITY.  183 

And  she,  whose  censure  thou  dost  dread, 
Whose  eye. thou  wert  afraid  to  seek, 
See,  on  her  face  a  glow  is  spread, 
A  strong  emotion  on  her  cheek. 

"  Ah  child,"  she  cries,  "  that  strife  divine  — 
Whence  was  it,  for  it  is  not  mine  ? 

"  There  is  no  effort  on  my  brow  — 
I  do  not  strive,  I  do  not  weep. 
I  rush  with  the  swift  spheres,  and  glow 
In  joy,  and,  when  I  will,  I  sleep. — 

Yet  that  severe,  that  earnest  air, 
I  saw,  I  felt  it  once  —  but  where  ?  " 

**  I  knew  not  yet  the  gauge  of  Time, 
Nor  wore  the  manacles  of  Space. 
I  felt  it  in  some  other  clime  — 
I  saw  it  in  some  other  place. 

—  'Twas  when  the  heavenly  house  I  trod. 
And  lay  upon  the  breast  of  God." 


SELF-DEPENDENCE. 


Weaey  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 
What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be, 
At  the  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which  bears  me 
Forwards,  forwards,  o'er  the  starlit  sea. 

And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 

O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send : 

*'  Ye  who  from  my  childhood  up  have  calm' d  me, 

Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the  end. 

"  Ah,  once  more,"  I  cried,  "  ye  Stars,  ye  Waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew  : 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you. 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you." 

From  the  intense,  clear,  star-sown  vault  of  heaven, 

Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way, 

In  the  rustling  night-air  came  the  answer  — 

"  Wouldst  thou  he  as  these  are?     Live  as  they. 


SELF-DEPENDENCE.  185 

"  UnafFriglited  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see, 
These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 

*'  And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining, 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-silver'd  roll. 
For  alone  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 

"  Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unobseTvaiit" 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be, 
In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring, 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see." 

O  air-born  Voice  !  long  since,  severely  clear 
A  cry  like  thine  in  my  own  heart  I  hear. 
*'  Resolve  to  be  thyself:  and  know,  that  he 
Who  finds  himself,  loses  his  misery." 


12 


CONSOLATION. 

The  wide  earth  is  still 
Wider  than  one  man's  passion  :  there's  no  mood, 
No  meditation,  no  delight,  no  sorrow, 
Cas'd  in  one  man's  dimensions,  can  distil 
Such  pregnant  and  infectious  quality,  . 
Six  yards  round  shall  not  ring  it.  — 

Mist  clogs  the  sunshine. 
Smoky  dwarf  houses 
Hem  me  round  everywhere. 

A  vague  dejection 
Weighs  down  my  soul. 

Yet,  while  I  languish, 
Everywhere,  countless 
Prospects  unroll  themselves, 

And  countless  beings 
Pass  countless  moods. 

Far  hence,  in  Asia, 

On  the  smooth  convent-roofs, 

On  the  gold  terraces 

Of  holy  Lassa, 
Bright  shines  the  sun. 


CONSOLATION.  187 

Gray  time-worn  marbles 
Hold  the  pure  Muses. 
In  their  cool  gallery, 

By  yellow  Tiber, 
They  still  look  fair. 

Strange  unlov'd  uproar  * 
Shrills  round  their  portal. 
Yet  not  on  Helicon 

Kept  they  more  cloudless 
Their  noble  calm. 

Through  sun-proof  alleys, 
In  a  lone,  sand-hemm'd 
City  of  Africa, 

A  blind,  led  beggar, 
Age-bow'd,  asks  alms. 

No  bolder  Robber 
Erst  abode  ambush'd 
Deep  in  the  sandy  waste  ; 

No  clearer  eyesight 
Spied  prey  afar. 

Saharan  sand-winds 
Sear'd  his  keen  eyeballs. 
Spent  is  the  spoU  he  won, 

For  him  the  present 
Holds  only  pain. 

Written  during  the  siege  of  Home  by  the  French. 


188  CONSOIATION. 

Two  young,  fair  lovers, 
Where  tlie  warm  June  wind, 
Fresh  from  the  summer  fields, 

Plays  fondly  round  them, 
Stand,  tranc'd  in  joy. 

With  sweet,  joined  voices, 
And  with  eyes  brimming  — 
"  Ah,"  they  cry,  "  Destiny  ! 

Prolong  the  present ! 
Time  !  stand  still  here  !  " 

The  prompt  stern  Goddess 
Shakes  her  head,  frowning. 
Time  gives  his  hour-glass 

Its  due  reversal. 
Their  hour  is  gone. 

With  weak  indulgence 
Did  the  just  Goddess 
Lengthen  their  happiness. 

She  lengthen' d  also 
Distress  elsewhere. 

The  hour,  whose  happy 
TJnalloy'd  momdhts 
I  would  eternalize. 

Ten  thousand  mourners 
Well  pleas' d  see  end. 


CONSOLATION.  189 

The  bleak  stern  hour. 
Whose  severe  moments 
I  would  annihilate, 

Is  pass'd  by  others 
In  warmth,  light,  joy. 

Time,  so  complain' d  of, 
Who  to  no  one  man 
Shows  partiality, 

Brings  round  to  all  men 
Some  undimm'd  hours. 


THE  FUTURE. 


For  Nature  hath  long  kept  this  inn,  the  Earth, 
And  many  a  guest  hath  she  therein  receiv'd  — 


A  WANDERER  is  man  from  his  birth : 

He  was  born  in  a  ship 
On  the  breast  of  the  River  of  Time. 
Brimming  with  wonder  and  joy- 
He  spreads  out  his  arms  to  the  light,       ^ 
Rivets  his  gaze  on  the  banks  of  the  stream. 

As  what  he  sees  is,  so  have  his  thoughts  been. 

Whether  he  wakes 

Where  the  snowy  mountainous  pass 

Echoing  the  screams  of  the  eagles 

Hems  in  its  gorges  the  bed 

Of  the  new-born  clear-flowing  stream  : 

Whether  he  first  sees  light 
Where  the  river  in  gleaming  rings 

Sluggishly  winds  through  the  plain  : 
Whether  in  sound  of  the  swallowing  sea  :  — 

As  is  the  world  on  the  banks 
So  is  the  mind  of  the  man. 


THE    FTJTUKE.  191 

Vainly  does  each  as  lie  glides 

Fable  and  dream 

Of  the  lands  wMch  the  River  of  Time 

Had  left  ere  he  woke  on  its  breast, 

Or  shall  reach  when  his  eyes  have  been  clos'd. 

Only  the  tract  where  he  sails 

He  wots  of:  only  the  thoughts, 

Rais'd  by  the  objects  he  passes,  are  his. 

Who  can  see  the  green  Earth  any  more 
As  she  was  by  the  sources  of  Time  ? 
Who  imagines  her  fields  as  they  lay 
In  the  sunshine,  unworn  by  the  plough, 
Who  thinks  as  they  thought. 
The  tribes  who  then  liv'd  on  her  breast. 
Her  vigorous  primitive  sons  ? 

What  girl 
Now  reads  in  her  bosom  as  clear 
As  Rebekah  read,  when  she  sate 
At  eve  by  the  palm-shaded  well  ? 
Who  guards  in  her  breast 
As  deep,  as  pellucid  a  spring 
Of  feeling,  as  tranquil,  as  sure  ? 

What  Bard, 
At  the  height  of  his  vision,  can  deem 
Of  God ,  of  the  world,  of  the  soul, 
With  a  plainness  as  near, 


192  THE    FUTURE. 

As  flashing  as  Moses  felt, 

When  he  lay  in  the  night  by  his  flock 

On  the  starlit  Arabian  waste? 

Can  rise  and  obey 

The  beck  of  the  Spirit  like  him  ? 

This  tract  which  the  River  of  Time 
Now  flows  through  with  us,  is  the  Plain. 
Gone  is  the  calm  of  its  earlier  shore. 
Border' d  by  cities  and  hoarse 
With  a  thousand  cries  is  its  stream. 
And  we  on  its  breast,  our  minds 
Are  confus'd  as  the  cries  which  we  hear, 

Changing  and  shot  as  the  sights  which  we  see. 

And  we  say  that  repose  has  fled 

Forever  the  course  of  the  River  of  Time. 

That  cities  will  crowd  to  its  edge 

In  a  blacker  incessanter  line ; 

That  the  din  will  be  more  on  its  banks, 

Denser  the  trade  on  its  stream, 

Flatter  the  plain  where  it  flows. 

Fiercer  the  sun  overhead. 
That  never  will  those  on  its  breast 
See  an  ennobling  sight. 
Drink  of  the  feeling  of  quiet  again. 

But  what  was  before  us  we  know  not. 
And  we  know  not  what  shall  succeed. 


THE    FUTURE.  193 

Haply  the  River  of  Time, 

As  it  grows,  as  the  towns  on  its  marge 

Fling  their  wavering  lights 

On  a  wider  statelier  stream  — 

May  acquire,  if  not  the  calm 

Of  its  early  mountainous  shore, 

Yet  a  solemn  peace  of  its  own. 
And  the  width  of  the  waters,  the  hush 
Of  the  gray  expanse  where  he  floats, 
Freshening  its  current  and  spotted  with  foam 
As  it  draws  to  the  Ocean,  may  strike 
Peace  to  the  soul  of  the  man  on  its  breast: 

As  the  pale  Waste  widens  around  him  — 
As  the  banks  fade  dimmer  away  — 
As  the  stars  come  out,  and  the  night-wind 
Brings  up  the  stream 
Murmurs  and  scents  of  the  infinite  Sea. 


BALDER   DEAD 


AN      EPISODE. 


1.  Sending. 

So  on  the  floor  lay  Balder  dead ;  and  round 
Lay  thickly  strewn  swords,  axes,  darts  and  spears, 
Which  all  the  Gods  in  sport  had  idly  thrown 
At  Balder,  whom  no  weapon  pierc'd  or  clove  : 
But  in  his  breast  stood  fixt  the  fatal  bough 
Of  mistletoe,  which  Lok  the  Accuser  gave 
To  Hoder,  and  unwitting  Hoder  threw : 
'Gainst  that  alone  had  Balder's  life  no  charm. 
And  all  the  Gods  and  all  the  Heroes  came 
And  stood  round  Balder  on  the  bloody  floor 
Weeping  and  wailing ;  and  Valhalla  rang 
Up  to  its  golden  roof  with  sobs  and  cries : 
And  on  the  tables  stood  the  untasted  meats, 
And  in  the  horns  and  gold-rimm'd  sculls  the  wine: 
And  now  would  Night  have  fall'n,  and  found  them  yet 
Wailing;  but  otherwise  was  Odin's  wdll : 
And  thus  the  Father  of  the  Ages  spake :  — 

*'  Enough  of  tears,  ye  Gods,  enough  of  wail ! 
Not  to  lament  in  was  Valhalla  made. 


BALDER   DEAD.  195 

If  any  here  might  weep  for  Balder's  death 

I  most  might  weep,  his  Father ;  such  a  son 

I  lose  to-day,  so  bright,  so  lov'd  a  God. 

But  he  has  met  that  doom  which  long  ago 

The  Nornies,  when  his  mother  bare  him,  spun, 

And  Fate  set  seal,  that  so  his  end  must  be. 

Balder  has  met  his  death,  and  ye  survive : 

Weep  him  an  hour  ;  but  what  can  grief  avail  ? 

For  you  yourselves,  ye  Gods,  shall  meet  your  doom, 

All  ye  who  hear  me,  and  inhabit  Heaven, 

And  I  too,  Odin  too,  the  Lord  of  all ; 

But  ours  we  shall  not  meet,  when  that  day  comes. 

With  woman's  tears  and  weak  complaining  cries  — 

Why  should  we  meet  another's  portion  so  ? 

Rather  it  fits  you,  having  wept  your  hour, 

With  cold  dry  eyes,  and  hearts  compos'd  and  stern, 

To  live,  as  erst,  your  daily  life  in  Heaven : 

By  me  shall  vengeance  on  the  murderer  Lok, 

The  Foe,  the  Accuser,  whom,  though  Gods,  we  hate, 

Be  strictly  car'd  for,  in  the  appointed  day. 

Meanwhile  to-morrow,  when  the  morning  dawns, 

Bying  wood  to  the  sea-shore  to  Balder's  ship, 

And  on  the  deck  build  high  a  funeral  pile, 

And  on  the  top  lay  Balder's  corpse,  and  put 

Fire  to  the  wood,  and  send  him  out  to  sea 

To  burn  ;  for  that  is  what  the  dead  desire." 

So  having  spoke,  the  King  of  Gods  arose 
And  mounted  his  horse  Sleipner,  whom  he  rode. 


196  BALDER  DEAD. 

And  from  the  hall  of  Heaven  he  rode  away 
To  Lidskialf,  and  sate  upon  his  throne, 
The  Mount,  from  whence  his  eye  surveys  the  world. 
And  far  from  Heaven  he  turn'd  his  shining  orbs 
To  look  on  Midgard,  and  the  earth,  and  men : 
And  on  the  conjuring  Lapps  he  bent  his  gaze 
Whom  antler'd  reindeer  pull  over  the  snow; 
And  on  the  Finns,  the  gentlest  of  mankind. 
Fair  men,  who  live  in  holes  under  the  ground : 
Nor  did  he  look  once  more  to  Ida's  plain, 
Nor  towards  Valhalla,  and  the  sorrowing  Gods ; 
For  well  he  knew  the  Gods  would  heed  his  word, 
And  cease  to  mourn,  and  think  of  Balder's  pyre. 

But  in  Valhalla  all  the  Gods  went  back 
From  around  Balder,  all  the  Heroes  went ; 
And  left  his  body  stretch' d  upon  the  floor. 
And  on  their  golden  chairs  they  sate  again, 
Beside  the  tables,  in  the  hall  of  Heaven ; 
And  before  each  the  cooks  who  serv'd  them  plac'd 
New  messes  of  the  boar  Serimner's  flesh. 
And  the  Valkyries  crown'd  their  horns  with  mead. 
So  they,  with  pent-up  hearts  and  tearless  eyes, 
Wailing  no  more,  in  silence  ate  and  drank. 
While  Twilight  fell,  and  sacred  Night  came  on. 

But  the  blind  Hoder  left  the  feasting  Gods 
In  Odin's  hall,  and  went  through  Asgard  streets, 


BALDEB   DEAD.  Wf 

And  past  the  haven  where  the  Gods  have  moor'd 

Their  ships,  and  through  the  gate,  beyond  the  wall. 

Though  sightless,  yet  his  own  mind  led  the  God. 

Down  to  the  margin  of  the  roaring  sea 

He  came,  and  sadly  went  along  the  sand 

Between  the  waves  and  black  o'erhanging  cliffs 

Where  in  and  out  the  screaming  sea-fowl  fly ; 

Until  he  came  to  where  a  gully  breaks 

Through  the  cliflE"  wall,  and  a  fresh  stream  runs  down 

From  the  high  moors  behind,  and  meets  the  sea. 

There  in  the  glen  Fensaler  stands,  the  house 

Of  Frea,  honor' d  Mother  of  the  Gods, 

And  shews  its  lighted  windows  to  the  main. 

There  he  went  up,  and  pass' d  the  open'd  doors  : 

And  in  the  hall  he  found  those  women  old, 

The  Prophetesses,  who  by  rite  eteme 

On  Frea's  hearth  feed  high  the  sacred  fire 

Both  night  and  day ;  and  by  the  inner  wall 

Upon  her  golden  chair  the  Mother  sate, 

With  folded  hands,  revolving  things  to  come  : 

To  her  drew  Hoder  near,  and  spake,  and  said  :  — 

"  Mother,  a  child  of  bale  thou  bar'st  in  me. 
For,  first,  thou  barest  me  with  blinded  eyes, 
Sightless  and  helpless,  wandering  weak  in  Heaven ; 
And,  after  that,  of  ignorant  witless  mind 
Thou  barest  me,  and  unforeseeing  soul : 
That  I  alone  must  take  the  branch  from  Lok, 
The  Foe,  the  Accuser,  whom,  though  Gods,  we  hate, 


198  BALDER   DEAD. 

And  cast  it  at  the  dear-lov'd  Balder's  breast, 

At  wliom  tlie  Gods  in  sport  their  weapons  threw — 

'Gainst  that  alone  had  Balder's  life  no  charm. 

Now  therefore  what  to  attempt,  or  whither  fly  ? 

For  who  will  bear  my  hateful  sight  in  Heaven  ?  — 

Can  I,  O  Mother,  bring  them  Balder  back  ? 

Or  —  for  thou  know'st  the  Fates,  and  things  allow'd 

Can  I  with  Hela's  power  a  compact  strike, 

And  make  exchange,  and  give  my  life  for  his  ?  " 

He  spoke ;  the  Mother  of  the  Gods  replied :  — 
"  Hoder,  ill-fated,  child  of  bale,  my  son. 
Sightless  in  soul  and  eye,  what  words  are  these  ? 
That  one,  long  portion' d  with  his  doom  of  death, 
Should  change  his  lot,  and  fill  another's  life, 
And  Hela  yield  to  this,  and  let  him  go  ! 
On  Balder  Death  had  laid  her  hand,  not  thee  ; 
Nor  doth  she  count  this  life  a  price  for  that. 
For  many  Gods  in  Heaven,  not  thou  alone. 
Would  freely  die  to  purchase  Balder  back. 
And  wend  themselves  to  Hela's  gloomy  realm. 
For  not  so  gladsome  is  that  life  in  Heaven 
Which  Gods  and  Heroes  lead,  in  feast  and  fray, 
Waiting  the  darkness  of  the  final  times, 
That  one  should  grudge  its  loss  for  Balder's  sake, 
Balder  their  joy,  so  bright,  so  lov'd  a  God. 
But  Fate  withstands,  and  laws  forbid  this  way. 
Yet  in  my  secret  mind  one  way  I  know. 
Nor  do  I  judge  if  it  shall  win  or  fail : 
But  much  must  still  be  tried,  which  shall  but  fail." 


BALDER   DEAD.  199 

And  tlie  blind  Hoder  answer' d  her,  and  said  :  — 
"What  way  is  this,  O  Mother,  that  thou  shew'st? 
Is  it  a  matter  which  a  God  might  try  ?  " 

And  straight  the  Mother  of  the  Gods  replied :  — 
"  There  is  a  way  which  leads  to  Hela's  realm. 
Untrodden,  lonely,  far  from  light  and  Heaven. 
Who  goes  that  way  must  take  no  other  horse 
To  ride,  but  Sleipner,  Odin's  horse  alone. 
Nor  must  he  choose  that  common  path  of  Gods 
Which  every  day  they  come  and  go  in  Heaven, 
O'er  the  bridge  Bifrost,  where  is  Heimdall's  watch, 
Past  Midgard  Fortress,  down  to  Earth  and  men ; 
But  he  must  tread  a  dark  untravell'd  road 
Which  branches  from  the  north  of  Heaven,  and  ride 
Nine  days,  nine  nights,  towards  the  northern  ice. 
Through  valleys  deep-engulph'd,  with  roaring  streams. 
And  he  will  reach  on  the  tenth  morn  a  bridge 
Which  spans  with  golden  arches  Giall's  stream, 
Not  Bifrost,  but  that  bridge  a  Damsel  keeps, 
Who  tells  the  passing  troops  of  dead  their  way 
To  the  low  shore  of  ghosts,  and  Hela's  realm. 
And  she  will  bid  him  northward  steer  his  course : 
Then  he  will  journey  through  no  lighted  land, 
Nor  see  the  sun  arise,  nor  see  it  set ; 
But  he  must  ever  watch  the  northern  Bear 
Who  from  her  frozen  height  with  jealous  eye 
Confronts  the  Dog  and  Hunter  in  the  south, 
And  is  alone  not  dipt  in  Ocean's  stream. 


200  balDeh  dead. 

And  straight  lie  will  come  down  to  Ocean's  strand  ; 
Ocean,  whose  watery  ring  enfolds  the  world, 
And  on  whose  marge  the  ancient  Giants  dwell. 
But  he  will  reach  its  unknown  northern  shore, 
Far,  far  beyond  the  outmost  Giants  home, 
At  the  chink'd  fields  of  ice,  the  waste  of  snow: 
And  he  will  fare  across  the  dismal  ice 
Northward,  until  he  meets  a  stretching  wall 
Barring  his  way,  and  in  the  wall  a  grate. 
But  then  he  must  dismount,  and  on  the  ice 
Tighten  the  girths  of  Sleipner,  Odin's  horse. 
And  make  him  leap  the  grate,  and  come  within.   . 
And  he  will  see  stretch  round  him  Hela's  realm, 
The  plains  of  Niflheim,  where  dwells  the  dead, 
And  here  the  roaring  of  the  streams  of  Hell. 
And  he  will  see  the  feeble  shadowy  tribes. 
And  Balder  sitting  crown' d,  and  Hela's  throne. 
Then  he  must  not  regard  the  wailful  ghostig 
Who  all  will  flit,  like  eddying  leaves  around': 
But  he  must  straight  accost  their  solemn  Queen, 
And  pay  her  homage,  and  entreat  with  prayers, 
Telling  her  all  that  grief  they  have  in  Heaven 
For  Balder,  whom  she  holds  by  right  below : 
If  haply  he  may  melt  her  heart  with  words^ 
And  make  her  yield,  and  give  him  Balder  back,'* 

She  spoke  :  but  Hoder  answer' d  her  and  said  :  — 
"  Mother,  a  dreadful  way  is  this  thou  shew'st. 
No  journey  for  ai  sightless  God  to  go." 


BALDER    DEAD.  201 

And  straight  the  Mother  of  the  Gods  replied  :  — 
"  Therefore  thyself  thou  shalt  not  go,  my  son. 
But  he  whom  first  thou  meetest  when  thou  com'st 
To  Asgard,  and  declar'st  this  hidden  way, 
Shall  go,  and  I  will  he  his  guide  unseen." 

She  spoke,  and  on  her  face  let  fall  her  veil, 
And  bow'd  her  head,  and  sate  with  folded  hands. 
But  at  the  central  hearth  those  Women  old 
Who  while  the  Mother  spake  had  ceas'd  their  toil 
Began  again  to  heap  the  sacred  fire : 
And  Hoder  turn'd  and  left  his  mother's  house, 
Fensaler,  whose  lit  windows  look  to  sea ; 
And  came  again  down  to  the  roaring  waves, 
And  back  along  the  beach  to  Asgard  went, 
Pondering  on  that  which  Frea  said  should  be. 

But  Night  came  down,  and  darken'd  Asgard  streets. 
Then  from  their  loathed  feast  the  Gods  arose, 
And  lighted  torches,  and  took  up  the  corpse 
Of  Balder  from  the  floor  of  Odin's  hall. 
And  laid  it  on  a  bier,  and  bare  him  home 
Through  the  fast- darkening  streets  to  his  own  house 
Breidablik,  on  whose  columns  Balder  grav'd 
The  enchantments,  that  recall  the  dead  to  life  : 
For  wise  he  was,  and  many  curious  arts, 
Postures  of  runes,  and  healing  herbs  he  knew ; 
Unhappy  :  but  that  art  he  did  not  know 
To  keep  his  own  life  safe,  and  see  the  sun  ;  — 
13 


202  BALDER   DEAD. 

There  to  Ms  hall  the  Gods  brought  Balder  home, 
And  each  bespake  him  as  he  laid  him  down  :  — 

"  Would  that  ourselves,  O  Balder,  we  were  borne 
Home  to  our  halls,  with  torchlight,  by  our  kin. 
So  thou  might'st  live,  and  still  delight  the  Gods." 

They  spake  :  and  each  went  home  to  his  own  house. 
But  there  was  one,  the  first  of  all  the  Gods 
For  speed,  and  Hermod  was  his  name  in  Heaven  ; 
Most  fleet  he  was,  but  now  he  went  the  last. 
Heavy  in  heart  for  Balder,  to  his  house 
Which  he  in  Asgard  built  him,  there  to  dwell. 
Against  the  harbor,  by  the  city  wall  : 
Him  the  blind  Hoder  met,  as  he  came  up 
From  the  sea  cityward,  and  knew  his  step  ; 
Nor  yet  could  Hermod  see  his  brother's  face. 
For  it  grew  dark  ;  but  Hoder  touch' d  his  arm : 
And  as  a  spray  of  honeysuckle  flowers 
Brushes  across  a  tired  traveller's  face 
Who  shuflles  through  the  deep  dew-moisten' d  dust. 
On  a  May  evening,  in  the  darken'd  lanes. 
And  starts  him,  that  he  thinks  a  ghost  went  by  — 
So  Hoder  brush'd  by  Hermod's  side,  and  said  :  — 

"  Take  Sleipner,  Hermod,  and  set  forth  with  dawn 
To  Hela's  kingdom,  to  ask  Balder  back  : 
And  they  shall  be  thy  guides,  who  have  the  power." 


BALDER   DEAD.  -208 

He  spake,  and  brush'd  soft  by,  and  disappear'd. 
And  Hermod  gaz'd  into  the  night,  and  said  :  — 

"  Who  is  it  litters  through  the  dark  his  hest 
So  quickly,  and  will  wait  for  no  reply  ? 
The  voice  was  like  the  unhappy  Hoder's  voice. 
Howbeit  I  will  see,  and  do  his  hest ; 
For  there  rang  note  divine  in  that  command." 

So  speaking,  the  fleet-footed  Hermod  came 
Home,  and  lay  down  to  sleep  in  his  own  house, 
And  all  the  Gods  lay  down  in  their  own  homes. 
And  Hoder  too  came  home,  distraught  with  grief, 
Loathing  to  meet,  at  dawn,  the  other  Gods  : 
And  he  went  in,  and  shut  the  door,  and  fixt 
His  sword  upright,  and  fell  on  it,  and  died. 

But  from  the  hill  of  Lidskialf  Odin  rose. 
The  throne,  from  which  his  eye  surveys  the  world  ; 
And  mounted  Sleipner,  and  in  darkness  rode 
To  Asgard.     And  the  stars  came  out  in  Heaven, 
High  over  Asgard,  to  light  home  the  King. 
But  fiercely  Odin  gallop' d,  mov'd  in  heart; 
And  swift  to  Asgard,  to  the  gate,  he  came  : 
And  terribly  the  hoofs  of  Sleipner  rang 
Along  the  flinty  floor  of  Asgard  streets  ; 
And  the  Gods  trembled  on  their  golden  beds 
Hearing  the  wrathful  Father  coming  home  ; 
For  dread,  for  like  a  whirlwind,  Odin  came  : 


204  BALDER   DEAD. 

And  to  Valhalla's  gate  he  rode,  and  left 
Sleipner  ;  and  Sleipner  went  to  his  own  stall : 
And  in  Valhalla  Odin  laid  him  down. 

But  in  Breidahlik  Nanna,  Balder's  wife, 
Came  with  the  Goddesses  who  wrought  her  will, 
And  stood  round  Balder  lying  on  his  bier  : 
And  at  his  head  and  feet  she  station' d  Scalds 
Who  in  their  lives  were  famous  for  their  song ; 
These  o'er  the  corpse  inton'd  a  plaintive  strain, 
A  dirge  ;  and  Nanna  and  her  train  replied. 
And  far  into  the  night  they  wail'd  their  dirge : 
But  when  their  souls  Avere  satisfied  with  wail, 
They  went,  and  laid  them  down,  and  Nanna  went 
Into  an  upper  chamber,  and  lay  down ; 
And  Frea  seal'd  her  tired  lips  with  sleep. 

And  'twas  when  Night  is  bordering  hard  on  Dawn, 
When  air  is  chilliest,  and  the  stars  sunk  low. 
Then  Balder's  spirit  through  the  gloom  drew  near. 
In  garb,  in  form,  in  feature  as  he  was 
Alive,  and  still  the  rays  were  round  his  head 
Which  were  his  glorious  mark  in  Heaven  ;  he  stood 
Over  against  the  curtain  of  the  bed. 
And  gaz'd  on  Nanna  as  she  slept,  and  spake  : — 

"  Poor  lamb,  thou  sleepest,  and  forgett'st  thy  woe. 
Tears  stand  upon  the  lashes  of  thine  eyes, 
Tears  wet  the  pillow  by  thy  cheek ;  but  thou, 


BALDER    DEAD.  .  20^ 

Like  a  young  cliild,  hast  cried  thyself  to  sleep. 

Sleep  on  :  I  watch  thee,  and  am  here  to  aid. 

Alive  I  kept  not  far  from  thee,  dear  soul, 

Neither  do  I  neglect  thee  now,  though  dead. 

For  with  to-morrow's  dawn  the  Gods  prepare 

To  gather  wood,  and  build  a  funeral  pile 

Upon  my  ship,  and  burn  my  corpse  with  fire, 

That  sad,  sole  honor  of  the  dead ;  and  thee 

They  think  to  burn,  and  all  my  choicest  wealth, 

With  me,  for  thus  ordains  the  common  rite  : 

But  it  shall  not  be  so  :  but  mild,  but  swift. 

But  painless  shall  a  stroke  from  Frea  come. 

To  cut  thy  thread  of  life,  and  free  thy  soul, 

And  they  shall  burn  thy  corpse  with  mine,  not  thee. 

And  well  I  know  that  by  no  stroke  of  death. 

Tardy  or  swift,  wouldst  thou  be  loath  to  die. 

So  it  restor'd  thee,  Nanna,  to  my  side, 

Whom  thou  so  well  hast  lov'd :  but  I  can  smooth 

Thy  way,  and  this  at  least  my  prayers  avail. 

Yes,  and  I  fain  would  altogether  ward 

Death  from  thy  head,  and  with  the  Gods  in  Heaven 

Prolong  thy  life,  though  not  by  thee  desir'd : 

But  Right  bars  this,  not  only  thy  desire. 

Yet  dreary,  Nanna,  is  the  life  they  lead 

In  that  dim  world,  in  Hela's  mouldering  realm ; 

And  doleful  are  the  ghosts,  the  troops  of  dead, 

Whom  Hela  with  austere  control  presides  ; 

For  of  the  race  of  Gods  is  no  one  there 

Save  me  alone,  and  Hela,  solemn  Queen  : 


206  BALDER    DEAD. 

And  all  the  nobler  souls  of  mortal  men 
On  battle-field  have  met  their  death,  and  now 
Feast  in  Valhalla,  in  my  father's  hall ; 
Only  the  inglorious  sort  are  there  below, 
The  old,  the  cowards,  and  the  weak  are  there, 
Men  spent  by  sickness,  or  obscure  decay. 
But  even  there,  O  Nanna,  we  might  find 
Some  solace  in  each  other's  look  and  speech, 
Wandering  together  through  that  gloomy  world, 
And  talking  of  the  life  we  led  in  Heaven, 
While  we  yet  liv'd  among  the  other  Gods." 

He  spake,  and  straight  his  lineaments  began 
To  fade  :  and  Nanna  in  her  sleep  stretch' d  out 
Her  arms  towards  him  with  a  cry  ;  but  he 
Mournfully  shook  his  head,  and  disappear' d. 
And  as  the  woodman  sees  a  little  smoke 
Hang  in  the  air,  afield,  and  disappear  — 
So  Balder  faded  in  the  night  away. 
And  Nanna  on  her  bed  sunk  back :  but  then 
Frea,  the  Mother  of  the  Gods,  with  stroke 
Painless  and  swift,  set  free  her  airy  soul. 
Which  took,  on  Balder's  track,  the  way  below : 
And  instantly  the  sacred  Morn  appear' d. 


BALDER    DEAD.  207 


2.  Journey  to  the  Dead. 


Forth  from  the  East,  up  the  ascent  of  Heaven, 
Day  drove  his  courser  with  the  Shining  Mane ; 
And  in  Valhalla,  from  his  gable  perch. 
The  golden-crested  Cock  began  to  crow : 
Hereafter,  in  the  blackest  dead  of  night, 
With  shrill  and  dismal  cries  that  Bird  shall  crow, 
Warning  the  Gods  that  foes  draw  nigh  to  Heaven ; 
But  now  he  crew  at  dawn,  a  cheerful  note. 
To  wake  the  Gods  and  Heroes  to  their  tasks. 
And  all  the  Gods,  and  all  the  Heroes,  woke. 
And  from  their  beds  the  Heroes  rose,  and  donn'd 
Their  arms,  and  led  their  horses  from  the  stall, 
And  mounted  them,  and  in  Valhalla's  court 
Were  rang'd ;  and  then  the  daily  fray  began. 
And  all  day  long  they  there  are  hack'd  and  hewn 
'Mid  dust,  and  groans,  and  limbs  lopp'd  off,  and  blood  ; 
But  all  at  night  return  to  Odin's  hall 
Woundless  and  fresh :  such  lot  is  theirs  in  Heaven. 
And  the  Valkyries  on  their  steeds  went  forth 
Toward  Earth  and  fights  of  men ;  and  at  their  side 
Skulda,  the  youngest  of  the  Nornie?,  rode : 


208  BALDEK  DEAD. 

And  over  Bifrost,  where  is  Heimdall's  watcli, 

Past  Midgard  Fortress,  down  to  Eaijth  they  came  : 

There  through  some  battle-field,  where  men  fall  fast, 

Their  horses  fetlock-deep  in  blood,  they  ride, 

And  pick  the  bravest  warriors  out  for  death, 

Whom  they  bring  back  with  them  at  night  to  Heaven, 

To  glad  the  Gods,  and  feast  in  Odin's  hall. 

But  the  Gods  went  not  now,  as  otherwhile, 
Into  the  Tilt- Yard,  where  the  Heroes  fought, 
To  feast  their  eyes  with  looking  on  the  fray : 
Nor  did  they  to  their  Judgment-Place  repair 
By  the  ash  Igdrasil,  in  Ida's  plain. 
Where  they  hold  council,  and  give  laws  for  men : 
But  they  went,  Odin  first,  the  rest  behind. 
To  the  hall  Gladheim,  which  is  built  of  gold ; 
Where  are  in  circle  rang'd  twelve  golden  chairs. 
And  in  the  midst  one  higher,  Odin's  throne : 
There  all  the  Gods  in  silence  sate  them  down  ; 
And  thus  the  Father  of  the  Ages  spake :  — 

"  Go  quickly,  Gods,  bring  wood  to  the  seashore, 
With  all,  which  it  beseems  the  dead  to  have. 
And  make  a  funeral  pile  on  Balder's  ship. 
On  the  twelfth  day  the  Gods  shall  burn  his  corpse. 
But  Hermod,  thou  take  Sleipner,  and  ride  down 
To  Hela's  kingdom,  to  ask  Balder  back." 

So  said  he.;  and  the  Gods  arose,  and  took 


BALDER    DEAD.  S09 

Axes  and  ropes,  and  at  their  head  came  Thor, 
Shouldering  his  Hammer,  which  the  Giants  know : 
Forth  wended  they,  and  drove  their  steeds  before : 
And  up  the  dewy  mountain  tracks  they  far'd  • 

To  the  dark  forests,  in  the  early  dawn ; 
And  up  and  down  and  side  and  slant  they  roam'd : 
And  from  the  glens  all  day  an  echo  came 
Of  crashing  falls ;  for  with  his  hammer  Thor 
Smote  'mid  the  rocks  the  lichen-bearded  pines 
And  burst  their  roots ;  while  to  their  tops  the  Gods 
Made  fast  the  woven  ropes,  and  hal'd  them  down. 
And  lopp'd  their  boughs,  and  clove  them  on  the  sward, 
And  bound  the  logs  behind  their  steeds  to  draw. 
And  drove  them  homeward ;  and  the  snorting  steeds 
Went  straining  through  the  crackling  bjrushwood  down, 
And  by  the  darkling  forest  paths  the  Gods 
Follow'd,  and  on  their  shoulders  carried  boughs. 
And  they  came  out  upon  the  plain,  and  pass'd 
Asgard,  and  led  their  horses  to  the  beach. 
And  loos' d  them  of  their  loads  on  the  seashore, 
And  rang'd  the  wood  in  stacks  by  Balder's  ship ; 
And  every  God  went  home  to  his  own  house. 

But  when  the  Gods  were  to  the  forest  gone, 
Hermod  led  Sleipner  from  Valhalla  forth 
And  saddled  him ;  before  that,  Sleipner  brook'd 
No  meaner  hand  than  Odin's  on  his  mane, 
On  his  broad  back  no  lesser  rider  bore  : 
Yet  docile  now  he  stood  at  Hennod's  side. 


210  BALDER    DEAD. 

Arching  his  neck,  and  glad  to  be  bestrode, 
Knowing  the  God  they  went  to  seek,  how  dear. 
But  Hermod  mounted  him,  and  sadly  far'd. 
In  silence,  up  the  dark  untravell'd  road 
Which  branches  from  the  north  of  Heaven,  and  went 
All  day ;  and  Daylight  wan'd,  and  Night  came  on. 
And  all  that  night  he  rode,  and  journeyed  so. 
Nine  days,  nine  nights,  towards  the  northern  ice. 
Through  valleys  deep  engulph'd,  by  roaring  streams  : 
And  on  the  tenth  morn  he  beheld  the  bridge 
Which  spans  with  golden  arches  Giall's  stream, 
And  on  the  bridge  a  Damsel  watching  arm'd, 
In  the  strait  passage,  at  the  further  end, 
Where  the  road  issues  between  walling  rocks. 
Scant  space  that  Warder  left  for  passers  by ; 
But,  as  when  cowherds  in  October  drive 
Their  kine  across  a  snowy  mountain  pass 
To  winter  pasture  on  the  southern  side. 
And  on  the  ridge  a  waggon  chokes  the  way 
Wedg'd  in  the  snow ;  then  painfully  the  hinds 
With  goad  and  shouting  urge  their  cattle  past. 
Plunging  through  deep  untrodden  banks  of  snow 
To  right  and  left,  and  warm  steam  fills  the  air  — 
So  on  the  bridge  that  Damsel  block' d  the  way. 
And  question'd  Hermod  as  he  came,  and  said:  — 

"  Who  art  thou  on  thy  black  and  fiery  horse 
Under  whose  hoofs  the  bridge  o'er  Giall's  stream 
Rumbles  and  shakes  ?     Tell  me  thy  race  and  home. 


BALDER    DEAD.  211 

But  yestermorn  five  troops  of  dead  pass'd  by 
Bound  on  their  way  below  to  Hela's  realm, 
Nor  shook  the  bridge  so  much  as  thou  alone. 
And  thou  hast  flesh  and  color  on  thy  cheeks 
Like  men  who  live  and  draw  the  vital  air ; 
Nor  look'st  thou  pale  and  wan,  like  men  deceas'd, 
Souls  bound  below,  my  daily  passers  here." 

And  the  fleet-footed  Hermod  answer'd  her  :  — 
"  O  Damsel,  Hermod  am  I  call'd,  the  son 
Of  Odin  ;  and  my  high-roof 'd  house  is  built 
Far  hence,  in  Asgard,  in  the  City  of  Gods : 
And  Sleipner,  Odin's  horse,  is  this  I  ride. 
And  I  come,  sent  this  road  on  Balder's  track : 
Say  then,  if  he  hath  cross'd  thy  bridge  or  no  ?  " 

He  spake  ;  the  Warder  of  the  bridge  replied  :  — 
*'  O  Hermod,  rarely  do  the  feet  of  Gods 
Or  of  the  horses  of  the  Gods  resound 
Upon  my  bridge ;  and,  when  they  cross,  I  know. 
Balder  hath  gone  this  way,  and  ta'en  the  road 
Below  there,  to  the  north,  toward  Hela's  realm. 
From  here  the  cold  white  mist  can  be  discern' d, 
Not  lit  with  sun,  but  through  the  darksome  air 
By  the  dim  vapor-blotted  light  of  stars, 
Which  hangs  over  the  ice  where  lies  the  road. 
For  in  that  ice  are  lost  those  northern  streams 
Freezing  and  ridging  in  their  onward  flow. 
Which  from  the  fountain  of  Vergelmer  run, 


212  BALDER   DEAD. 

The  spring  that  bubbles  up  by  Hela's  throne. 
There  are  the  joyless  seats,  the  haunt  of  ghosts, 
Hela's  pale  swarms ;  and  there  was  Balder  bound. 
Ride  on  ;  pass  free  :  but  he  by  this  is  there." 

She  spake,  and  stepp'd  aside,  and  left  him  room. 
And  Hermod  greeted  her,  and  gallop'd  by 
Across  the  bridge ;  then  she  took  post  again. 
But  northward  Hermod  rode,  the  way  below  : 
And  o'er  a  darksome  tract,  which  knows  no  sun, 
But  by  the  blotted  light  of  stars,  he  far'd ; 
And  he  came  down  to  Ocean's  northern  strand 
At  the  drear  ice,  beyond  the  Giants'  home  : 
Thence  on  he  journey'd  o'er  the  fields  of  ice 
Still  north,  until  he  met  a  stretching  wall 
Barring  his  way,  and  in  the  wall  a  grate. 
Then  he  dismounted,  and  drew  tight  the  girths, 
On  the  smooth  ice,  of  Sleipner,  Odin's  horse. 
And  made  him  leap  the  grate,  and  came  within. 
And  he  beheld  spread  round  him  Hela's  realm, 
The  plains  of  Niflheim,  where  dwell  the  dead. 
And  heard  the  thunder  of  the  streams  of  Hell. 
For  near  the  wall  the  river  of  Roaring  flows, 
Outmost :  the  others  near  the  centre  run  — 
The  Storm,  the  Abyss,  the  Howling,  and  the  Pain : 
These  flow  by  Hela's  throne,  and  near  their  spring. 
And  from  the  dark  flock' d  up  the  shadowy  tribes  : 
And  as  the  swallows  crowd  the  bulrush-beds 
Of  some  clear  river,  issuing  from  a  lake, 


BALDER    DEAD.  21S 

On  autumn  days,  before  they  cross  tlie  sea ; 

And  to  eacli  bulrush-crest  a  swallow  hangs 

Swinging,  and  others  skim  the  river  streams, 

And  their  quick  twittering  fills  the  banks  and  shores  — 

So  around  Hermod  swarm'd  the  twittering  ghosts. 

Women,  and  infants,  and  young  men  who  died 

Too  soon  for  fame,  with  white  ungraven  shields ; 

And  old  men,  known  to  Glory,  but  their  star 

Betray'd  them,  and  of  wasting  age  they  died. 

Not  wounds  :  yet,  dying,  they  their  armor  wore, 

And  now  have  chief  regard  in  Hela's  realm. 

Behind  flock'd  wrangling  up  a  piteous  crew, 

Greeted  of  none,  disfeatur'd  and  forlorn  — 

Cowards,  who  were  in  sloughs  interr'd  alive : 

And  round  them  still  the  wattled  hurdles  hung 

Wherewith  they  stamp' d  them  down,  and  trod  them 

deep. 
To  hide  their  shameful  memory  from  men. 
But  all  he  pass'd  unhail'd,  and  reach'd  the  throne 
Of  Hela,  and  saw,  near  it.  Balder  crown'd, 
And  Hela  set  thereon,  with  countenance  stern ; 
And  thus  bespake  him  first  the  solemn  Queen :  — 

"  Unhappy,  how  hast  thou  endur'd  to  leave 
The  light,  and  journey  to  the  cheerless  land 
Where  idly  flit  about  the  feeble  shades  ? 
How  did'st  thou  cross  the  bridge  o'er  Giall's  stream, 
Being  alive,  and  come  to  Ocean's  shore  ? 
Or  how  o'erleap  the  grate  that  bars  the  wall  .^  " 


214  BALDER    DEAD. 

She  spake  :  but  down  off  Sleipner  Hermod  sprang, 
And  fell  before  her  feet,  and  clasp' d  her  knees ; 
And  spake,  and  mild  entreated  her,  and  said  :  — 

"  O  Hela,  wherefore  should  the  Gods  declare 
Their  errands  to  each  other,  or  the  ways 
They  go  ?  the  errand  and  the  way  is  known. 
Thou  know'st,  thou  know'st,   what  grief  we  have  in 

Heaven 
For  Balder,  whom  thou  hold'st  by  right  below : 
Restore  him,  for  what  part  fulfils  he  here  ? 
Shall  he  shed  cheer  over  the  cheerless  seats, 
And  touch  the  apathetic  ghosts  with  joy  ? 
Not  for  such  end,  O  Queen,  thou  hold'st  thy  realm. 
For  Heaven  was  Balder  born,  the  City  of  Gods 
And  Heroes,  where  they  live  in  light  and  joy  : 
Thither  restore  him,  for  his  place  is  there." 

He  spoke ;  and  grave  replied  the  solemn  Queen  :  — 
"  Hermod,  for  he  thou  art,  thou  Son  of  Heaven ! 
A  strange,  unlikely  errand,  sure,  is  thine. 
Do  the  Gods  send  to  me  to  make  them  blest  ? 
Small  bliss  my  race  hath  of  the  Gods  obtain' d. 
Three  mighty  children  to  my  Father  Lok 
Did  Angerbode,  the  Giantess,  bring  forth  — 
Fenris  the  Wolf,  the  Serpent  huge,  and  Me : 
Of  these  the  Serpent  in  the  sea  ye  cast. 
Who  since  in  your  despite  hath  wax'd  amain, 
And  now  with  gleaming  ring  enfolds  the  world : 


BALDER    DEAD.  215 

Me  on  this  cheerless  nether  world  ye  threw 

And  gave  me  nine  unlighted  realms  to  rule : 

While  on  this  island  in  the  lake,  afar, 

Made  fast  to  the  bor'd  crag,  by  wile  not  strength 

Subdu'd,  with  limber  chains  lives  Fenris  bound. 

Lok  still  subsists  in  Heaven,  our  Father  wise, 

Your  mate,  though  loath'd,  and  feasts  in  Odin's  hall; 

But  him  too  foes  await,  and  netted  snares, 

And  in  a  cave  a  bed  of  needle  rocks, 

And  o'er  his  visage  serpents  dropping  gall. 

Yet  he  shall  one  day  rise,  and  burst  his  bonds, 

And  with  himself  set  us  his  offspring  free. 

When  he  guides  Muspel's  children  to  their  bourne. 

Till  then  in  peril  or  in  pain  we  live. 

Wrought  by  the  Gods  :  and  ask  the  Gods  our  aid  ? 

Howbeit  we  abide  our  day  :  till  then. 

We  do  not  as  some  feebler  haters  do. 

Seek  to  afflict  our  foes  with  petty  pangs. 

Helpless  to  better  us,  or  ruin  them. 

Come  then ;  if  Balder  was  so  dear  belov'd. 

And  this  is  true,  and  such  a  loss  is  Heaven's  — 

Hear,  how  to  Heaven  may  Balder  be  restor'd. 

Shew  me  through  all  the  world  the  signs  of  grief : 

Fails  but  one  thing  to  grieve,  here  Balder  stops : 

Let  all  that  lives  and  moves  upon  the  earth 

Weep  him,  and  all  that  is  without  life  weep : 

Let  Gods,  men,  brutes,  beweep  him ;  plants  and  stones. 

So  shall  I  know  the  lost  was  dear  indeed, 

And  bend  my  heart,  and  give  him  back  to  Heaven." 


216  BALDEE    DEAD. 

She  spake ;  and  Hermod  answer' d  her,  and  said  :  — 
"  Hela,  such  as  thou  say'st,  the  terms  shall  be. 
But  come,  declare  me  this,  and  truly  tell : 
May  I,  ere  I  depart,  bid  Balder  hail  ? 
Or  is  it  here  withheld  to  greet  the  dead  ?  " 

He  spake  ;  and  straightway  Hela  answer' d  him  :  — 
"  Hermod,  greet  Balder  if  thou  wilt,  and  hold 
Converse  :  his  speech  remains,  though  he  be  dead." 

And  straight  to  Balder  Hermod  turn'd,  and  spake  :  - 
"  Even  in  the  abode  of  Death,  O  Balder,  hail ! 
Thou  hear' st,  if  hearing,  like  as  speech,  is  thine, 
The  terms  of  thy  releasement  hence  to  Heaven  : 
Fear  nothing  but  that  all  shall  be  fulfill' d. 
For  not  unmindful  of  thee  are  the  Gods 
Who  see  the  light,  and  blest  in  Asgard  dwell ; 
Even  here  they  seek  thee  out,  in  Hela's  realm.  - 
And  sure  of  all  the  happiest  far  art  thou 
Who  ever  have  been  known  in  Earth  or  Heaven : 
Alive,  thou  wert  of  Gods  the  most  belov'd : 
And  now  thou  sittest  crown'd  by  Hela's  side, 
Here,  and  hast  honor  among  all  the  dead." 

He  spake ;  and  Balder  utter'd  him  reply. 
But  feebly,  as  a  voice  far  off;  he  said  :  — 

"  Hermod  the  nimble,  gild  me  not  my  death. 
Better  to  live  a  slave,  a  captur'd  man. 


BALDEE   DEAD.  217 

Wlio  scatters  rushes  in  a  master's  hall, 

Than  be  a  crown' d  king  here,  and  rule  the  dead. 

And  now  I  count  not  of  these  terms  as  safe 

To  be  fulfill'd,  nor  my  return  as  sure. 

Though  I  be  lov'd,  and  many  mourn  my  death : 

For  double-minded  ever  was  the  seed 

Of  Lok,  and  double  are  the  gifts  they  give. 

Howbeit,  report  thy  message  ;  and  therewith, 

To  Odin,  to  my  Father,  take  this  ring. 

Memorial  of  me,  whether  sav'd  or  no  : 

And  tell  the  Heaven-born  Gods  how  thou  hast  seen 

Me  sitting  here  below  by  Hela's  side, 

Crown'd,  having  honor  among  all  the  dead." 

He  spake,  and  rais'd  his  hand,  and  gave  the  ring. 
And  with  inscrutable  regard  the  Queen 
Of  Hell  beheld  them,  and  the  ghosts  stood  dumb. 
But  Hermod  took  the  ring,  and  yet  once  more 
Kneel'd  and  did  homage  to  the  solemn  Queen ; 
Then  mounted  Sleipner,  and  set  forth  to  ride 
Back,  through  the  astonish'd  tribes  of  dead,  to  Heaven. 
And  to  the  wall  he  came,  and  found  the  grate 
Lifted,  and  issued  on  the  fields  of  ice ; 
And  o'er  the  ice  he  far'd  to  Ocean's  strand, 
And  up  from  thence,  a  wet  and  misty  road, 
To  the  arm'd  Damsel's  bridge,  and  Giall's  stream. 
Worse  was  that  way  to  go  than  to  return. 
For  him :  for  others  all  return  is  barr'd. 
Nine  days  he  took  to  go,  two  to  return ; 
14 


218  BALDEB  DEAD. 

And  on  the  twelfth  morn  saw  the  light  of  Heaven. 
And  as  a  traveller  in  the  early  dawn 
To  the  steep  edge  of  some  great  valley  comes 
Through  which  a  river  flows,  and  sees  beneath 
Clouds  of  white  rolling  vapors  fill  the  vale, 
But  o'er  them,  on  the  farther  slope,  descries 
Vineyards,  and  crofts,  and  pastures,  bright  with  sun 
So  Hermod,  o'er  the  fog  between,  saw  Heaven. 
And  Sleipner  snorted,  for  he  smelt  the  air 
Of  Heaven  :  and  mightily,  as  wing'd,  he  flew. 
And  Hermod  saw  the  towers  of  Asgard  rise : 
And  he  drew  near,  and  heard  no  living  voice 
In  Asgard  ;  but  the  golden  halls  were  dumb. 
Then  Hermod  knew  what  labor  held  the  Gods : 
And  through  the  empty  streets  he  rode,  and  pass'd 
Under  the  gate-house  to  the  sands,  and  found 
The  Gods  on  the  seashore  by  Balder's  ship. 


BALDES   DEAD.  219 


3.  Funeral. 


The  Gods  held  talk  together,  group'd  in  knots, 
Round  Balder' s  corpse,  which  they  had  thither  borne ; 
And  Hermod  came  down  towards  them  from  the  gate. 
An(^  Lok,  the  Father  of  the  Serpent,  first 
Beheld  him  come,  and  to  his  neighbor  spake  :  — 

**  See,  here  is  Hermod,  who  comes  single  back 
From  Hell ;  and  shall  I  tell  thee  how  he  seems  ? 
Like  as  a  farmer,  who  hath  lost  his  dog, 
One  morn,  at  market,  in  a  crowded  town  — 
Through  many  streets  the  poor  beast  runs  in  vain, 
And  follows  this  man  after  that,  for  hours  ; 
And,  late  at  evening,  spent  and  panting,  falls 
Before  a  stranger's  threshold,  not  his  home, 
With  flanks  a-tremble,  and  his  slender  tongue 
Hangs  quivering  out  between  his  dust-smear'd  jaws. 
And  piteously  he  eyes  the  passers  by  : 
But  home  his  master  comes  to  his  own  farm, 
Far  in  the  country,  wondering  where  he  is  — 
So  Hermod  comes  to-day  unfoUow'd  home." 


220  BALDEK   DEAD.  ^ 

And  straight   his   neighbor,  mov'd  with   wrath,   re- 
plied :  — 
"  Deceiver,  fair  in  form,  hut  false  in  heart. 
Enemy,  Mocker,  whom,  though  Gods,  we  hate  — 
Peace,  lest  our  Father  Odin  hear  thee  gibe. 
Would  I  might  see  him  snatch  thee  in  his  hand, 
And  bind  thy  carcase,  like  a  bale,  with  cords, 
And  hurl  thee  in  a  lake,  to  sink  or  swim. 
If  clear  from  plotting  Balder's  death,  to  swim ; 
But  deep,  if  thou  devisedst  it,  to  drown. 
And  perish,  against  fate,  before  thy  day  !  " 

So  they  two  soft  to  one  another  spake. 
But  Odin  look'd  toward  the  land,  and  saw 
His  messenger  ;  and  he  stood  forth,  and  cried  : 
And  Hermod  came,  and  leapt  from  Sleipner  down. 
And  in  his  Father's  hand  put  Sleipncr's  rein. 
And  greeted  Odin  and  the  Gods,  and  said :  — 

"  Odin,  my  Father,  and  ye,  Gods  of  Heaven ! 
Lo,  home,  having  perform' d  your  will,  I  come. 
Into  the  joyless  kingdom  have  I  been. 
Below,  and  look'd  upon  the  shadowy  tribes 
Of  ghosts,  and  commun'd  with  their  solemn  Queen ; 
And  to  your  prayer  she  sends  you  this  reply  :  — 
Shew  her  through  all  the  world  the  signs  of  grief: 
Fails  but  one  thing  to  grieve,  there  Balder  stops. 
Let  Gods,  men,  hrutes,  heweep  him,  plants  and  stones. 
So  shall  she  know  your  loss  was  dear  indeed. 
And  bend  her  heart,  and  give  you  Balder  back.*' 


BALDER  DEAD.  221 

He  spoke  ;  and  all  the  Gods  to  Odin  look'd  : 
And  straight  the  Father  of  the  Ages  said :  — 

*'  Ye  Gods,  these  terms  may  keep  another  day. 
But  now,  put  on  your  arms,  and  mount  your  steeds, 
And  in  procession  all  come  near,  and  weep 
Balder  ;  for  that  is  what  the  dead  desire. 
When  ye  enough  have  wept,  then  build  a  pile 
Of  the  heap'd  wood,  and  burn  his  corpse  with  fire 
Out  of  our  sight ;  that  we  may  turn  from  grief, 
And  lead,  as  erst,  our  daily  life  in  Heaven." 

He  spoke  ;  and  the  Gods  arm'd  :  and  Odin  donn'd 
His  dazzling  corslet  and  his  helm  of  gold. 
And  led  the  way  on  Sleipner  :  and  the  rest 
Follow'd,  in  tears,  their  Father  and  their  King. 
And  thrice  in  arms  aroimd  the  dead  they  rode, 
Weeping;  the  sands  were  wetted,  and  their  arms, 
With  their  thick-falling  tears  :  so  good  a  friend 
They  mourn'd  that  day,  so  bright,  so  lov'd  a  God. 
And  Odin  came,  and  laid  his  kingly  hands 
On  Balder's  breast,  and  thus  began  the  wail :  — 

"  Farewell,  0  Balder,  bright  and  lov'd,  my  Son? 
In  that  great  day,  the  Twilight  of  the  Gods, 
When  Muspel's  children  shall  beleaguer  Heaven, 
Then  we  shall  miss  thy  counsel  and  thy  arm." 

Thou  camest  near  the  next,  O  Warrior  Thor  ! 
Shouldering  thy  Hammer,  in  thy  chariot  drawn, 


222  BALDER    DEAD. 

Swaying  the  long-hair'd  Goats  with  silver'd  rein ; 
And  over  Balder's  corpse  these  words  didst  say  :  — 

"  Brother,  thou  dwellest  in  the  darksome  land, 
And  talkest  with  the  feeble  tribes  of  ghosts. 
Now,  and  I  know  not  how  they  prize  thee  there, 
But  here,  I  know,  thou  wilt  be  miss'd  and  mourn' d. 
For  haughty  spirits  and  high  wraths  are  rife 
Among  the  Gods  and  Heroes  here  in  Heaven, 
As  among  those,  whose  joy  and  work  is  war  : 
And  daily  strifes  arise,  and  angry  words : 
But  from  thy  lips,  O  Balder,  night  or  day. 
Heard  no  one  ever  an  injurious  word 
To  God  or  Hero,  but  thou  keptest  back 
The  others,  laboring  to  compose  their  brawls. 
Be  ye  then  kind,  as  Balder  too  was  kind : 
For  we  lose  him,  who  smooth'd  all  strife  in  Heaven.' 

He  spake  :  and  all  the  Gods  assenting  wail'd. 
And  Freya  next  came  nigh,  with  golden  tears  : 
The  loveliest  Goddess  she  in  Heaven,  by  all 
Most  honor'd  after  Frea,  Odin's  wife  : 
Her  long  ago  the  wandering  Oder  took 
To  mate,  but  left  her  to  roam  distant  lands  ; 
Since  then  she  seeks  him,  and  weeps  tears  of  gold : 
Names  hath  she  many  ;  Vanadis  on  earth 
They  call  her ;  Freya  is  her  name  in  Heaven : 
She  in  her  hands  took  Balder's  head,  and  spake  :  — 


BALDER   DEAD.  223 

"  Balder,  my  brother,  thou  art  gone  a  road 
Unknown  and  long,  and  haply  on  that  way 
My  long-lost  wandering  Oder  thou  hast  met, 
For  in  the  paths  of  Heaven  he  is  not  found. 
Oh,  if  it  be  so,  tell  him  what  thou  wert 
To  his  neglected  wife,  and  what  he  is, 
And  wring  his  heart  with  shame,  to  hear  thy  word. 
For  he,  my  husband,  left  me  here  to  pine. 
Not  long  a  wife,  when  his  unquiet  heart 
First  drove  him  from  me  into  distant  lands. 
Since  then  I  vainly  seek  him  through  the  world, 
And  weep  from  shore  to  shore  my  golden  tears, 
But  neither  God  nor  mortal  heeds  my  pain. 
Thou  only.  Balder,  wert  forever  kind. 
To  take  my  hand,  and  wipe  my  tears,  and  say :  — 
Weep  not,  0  Freya,  weep  no  golden  tears  ! 
One  day  the  wandering  Oder  will  return, 
Or  thou  wilt  find  him  in  thy  faithful  search 
On  some  great  road,  or  resting  in  an  inn. 
Or  at  a  ford,  or  sleeping  hy  a  tree.  — 
So  Balder  said ;  but  Oder,  well  I  know. 
My  truant  Oder  I  shall  see  no  more 
To  the  world's  end  ;  and  Balder  now  is  gone  ; 
And  I  am  left  uncomforted  in  Heaven." 

She  spake  ;  and  all  the  Goddesses  bewail'd. 
Last,  from  among  the  Heroes  one  came  near, 
No  god,  but  of  the  Hero-troop  the  chief  — 
Regner,  >vho  swept  the  northern  sea  with  fleets, 


224  BALDER   DEAD. 

And  rul'd  o'er  Denmark  and  tlie  heathy  isles, 

Living;  but  Ella  captur'd  him  and  slew: 

A  king,  whose  fame  then  fill'd  the  vast  of  Heaven, 

Now  time  obscures  it,  and  men's  later  deeds  : 

He  last  approach' d  the  corpse,  and  spake,  and  said  : 

"  Balder,  there  yet  are  many  Scalds  in  Heaven 
Still  left,  and  that  chief  Scald,  thy  brother  Brage, 
Whom  we  may  bid  to  sing,  though  thou  art  gone : 
And  all  these  gladly,  while  we  drink,  we  hear. 
After  the  feast  is  done,  in  Odin's  hall : 
But  they  harp  ever  on  one  string,  and  wake 
Remembrance  in  our  soul  of  wars  alone. 
Such  as  on  earth  we  valiantly  have  wag'd. 
And  blood,  and  ringing  blows,  and  violent  death : 
But  when  thou  sangest,  Balder,  thou  didst  strike 
Another  note,  and,  like  a  bird  in  spring. 
Thy  voice  of  joyance  minded  us,  and  youth. 
And  wife,  and  children,  and  our  ancient  homi9. 
Yes,  and  I  too  remember' d  then  no  more 
My  dungeon,  where  the  serpents  stung  me  dead, 
Nor  Ella's  victory  on  the  English  coast ; 
But  I  heard  Thora  laugh  in  Gothland  Isle; 
And  saw  my  shepherdess,  Aslauga,  tend 
Her  flock  along  the  white  Norwegian  beach  : 
Tears  started  to  mine  eyes  with  yearning  joy: 
Therefore  with  grateful  heart  I  mourn  thee  dead." 

So  Regner  spake,  and  all  the  Heroes  groan*  d, 


BALDER   DEAD.  225 

But  now  the  sun  had  pass'd  the  height  of  Heaven, 
And  soon  had  all  that  day  been  spent  in  wail ; 
But  then  the  Father  of  the  Ages  said :  — 

"  Ye  Gods,  there  well  may  be  too  much  of  wail. 
Bring  now  the  gather'd  wood  to  Balder's  ship ; 
Heap  on  the  deck  the  logs,  and  build  the  pyre." 

But  when  the  Gods  and  Heroes  heard,  they  brought 
The  wood  to  Balder's  ship,  and  built  a  pile. 
Full  the  deck's  breadth,  and  lofty  ;  then  the  corpse 
Of  Balder  on  the  highest  top  they  laid. 
With  Nanna  on  his  right,  and  on  his  left 
Hoder,  his  brother,  whom  his  own  hand  slew. 
And  they  set  jars  of  wine  and  oil  to  lean 
Against  the  bodies,  and  stuck  torches  near, 
Splinters  of  pine- wood,  soak'd  with  turpentine ; 
And  brought  his  arms  and  gold,  and  all  his  stuff, 
And  slew  the  dogs  which  at  his  table  fed, 
And  his  horse,  Balder's  horse,  whom  most  he  lov'd, 
And  threw  them  on  the  pyre,  and  Odin  threw 
A  last  choice  gift  thereon,  his  golden  ring. 
They  fixt  the  mast,  and  hoisted  up  the  sails, 
Then  they  put  the  fire  to  the  wood  ;  and  Thor 
Set  his  stout  shoulder  hard  against  the  stem 
To  push  the  ship  through  the  thick  sand :  sparks  flew 
From  the  deep  trench  she  plough' d  —  so  strong  a  God 
Furrow'd  it  —  and  the  water  gurgled  in. 
And  the  Ship  floated  on  the  waves,  and  rock*d: 


226  -BALDER  DEAD. 

But  in  the  hills  a  strong  East-Wind  arose, 

And  came  down  moaning  to  the  sea  ;  first  squalls 

Ran  black  o'er  the  sea's  face,  then  steady  rush'd 

The  breeze,  and  fiU'd  the  sails,  and  blew  the  fire. 

And,  wreath' d  in  smoke,  the  Ship  stood  out  to  sea. 

Soon  with  a  roaring  rose  the  mighty  fire, 

And  the  pile  crackled  ;  and  between  the  logs 

Sharp  quivering  tongues  of  flame  shot  out,  and  leapt, 

Curling  and  darting,  higher,  until  they  lick'd 

The  summit  of  the  pile,  the  dead,  the  mast, 

And  ate  the  shrivelling  sails ;  but  still  the  Ship 

Drove  on,  ablaze,  above  her  hull,  with  fire. 

And  the  Gods  stood  upon  the  beach,  and  gaz'd : 

And,  while  they  gaz'd,  the  Sun  went  lurid  down 

Into  the  smoke-wrapt  sea,  and  Night  came  on. 

Then  the  wind  fell,  with  night,  and  there  was  calm. 

But  through  the  dark  they  watch' d  the  burning  Ship 

Still  carried  o'er  the  distant  waters  on 

Farther  and  farther,  like  an  Eye  of  Fire. 

And  as  in  the  dark  night  a  travelling  man 

Who  bivouacs  in  a  forest  'mid  the  hills. 

Sees  suddenly  a  spire  of  flame  shoot  up 

Out  of  the  black  waste  forest,  far  below, 

Which  woodcutters  have  lighted  near  their  lodge 

Against  the  wolves ;  and  all  night  long  it  flares  :  — 

So  flar'd,  in  the  far  darkness,  Balder's  pyre. 

But  fainter,  as  the  stars  rose  high,  it  burn'd ; 

The  bodies  were  consum'd,  ash  chok'd  the  pile : 

And  as  in  a  decaying  winter  fire 


BALDEB    DEAD.  227 

A  charr'd  log,  falling,  makes  a  shower  of  sparks  — 
So,  with  a  shower  of  sparks,  the  pile  fell  in, 
Reddening  the  sea  around ;  and  all  was  dark. 

But  the  Gods  went  by  starlight  up  the  shore 
To  Asgard,  and  sate  down  in  Odin's  hall 
At  table,  and  the  funeral  feast  began. 
All  night  they  ate  the  boar  Serimner's  flesh. 
And  from  their  horns,  with  silver  rimm'd,  drank  mead, 
Silent,  and  waited  for  the  sacred  Morn. 

And  Morning  over  all  the  world  was  spread. 
Then  from  their  loathed  feast  the  Gods  arose, 
And  took  their  horses,  and  set  forth  to  ride 
O'er  the  bridge  Bifrost,  Avhere  is  Heimdall's  watch, 
To  the  ash  Igdrasil,  and  Ida's  plain : 
Thor  came  on  foot ;  the  rest  on  horseback  rode. 
And  they  found  Mimir  sitting  by  his  Fount 
Of  Wisdom,  which  beneath  the  ashtree  springs ; 
And  saw  the  Nornies  watering  the  roots 
Of  that  world-shadowing  tree  with  Honey-dew : 
There  came  the  Gods,  and  sate  them  down  on  stones : 
And  thus  the  Father  of  the  Ages  said  :  — 

"  Ye   Gods,   the   terms   ye   know,    which  Hermod 
brought. 
Accept  them  or  reject  them ;  both  have  grounds. 
Accept  them,  and  they  bind  us,  unfulfiU'd, 
To  leave  forever  Balder  in  the  grave, 


228  BALDER   DEAI>, 

An  unrecover'd  prisoner,  shade  with  shades. 

But  how,  ye  say,  should  the  fulfilment  fail  ?  — - 

Smooth  sound  the  terms,  and  light  to  be  fulfiU'd  ; 

For  dear-belov'd  was  Balder  while  he  liv'd 

In  Heaven  and  Earth,  and  who  would  grudge  him  tears  ? 

But  from  the  traitorous  seed  of  Lok  they  come, 

These  terms,  and  I  suspect  some  hidden  fraud. 

Bethink  ye,  Gods,  is  there  no  other  way  ?  — 

Speak,  were  not  this  a  way,  the  way  for  Gods  ? 

If  I,  if  Odin,  clad  in  radiant  arms. 

Mounted  on  Sleipner,  with  the  Warrior  Thor 

Drawn  in  his  car  beside  me,  and  my  sons, 

All  the  strong  brood  of  Heaven,  to  swell  my  train, 

Should  make  irruption  into  Hela's  realm, 

And  set  the  fields  of  gloom  ablaze  with  light, 

And  bring  in  triumph  Balder  back  to  Heaven  ?  " 

He  spake  ;  and  his  fierce  sons  applauded  loud. 
But  Frea,  Mother  of  the  Gods,  arose. 
Daughter  and  wife  of  Odin  :  thus  she  said  :  -^ 

"  Odin,  thou  Whirlwind,  what  a  threat  is  this  ! 
Thou  threatenest  what  transcends  thy  mighty  even  thine. 
For  of  all  Powers  the  mightiest  far  art  thou, 
Lord  over  men  on  Earth,  and  Gods  in  Heaven ; 
Yet  even  from  thee  thyself  hath  been  withheld 
One  thing  ;  to  undo  what  thou  thyself  hast  rul'd. 
For  all  which  hath  been  fixt,  was  fixt  by  thee  : 
In  the  beginning,  ere  the  Gods  were  born, 


BALDER    DEAD.  229 

Before  the  Heavens  were  builded  thou  didst  slay 

The  Giant  Ymir,  whom  the  Abyss  brought  forth, 

Thou  and  thy  brethren  fierce,  the  Sons  of  Bor, 

And  threw  his  trunk  to  choke  the  abysmal  void  : 

But  of  his  flesh  and  members  thou  didst  build 

The  Earth  and  Ocean,  and  above  them  Heaven  : 

And  from  the  flaming  world,  where  Muspel  reigns. 

Thou  sent'st  and  fetched'st  fire,  and  madest  lights, 

Sun,  Moon  and  Stars,  which  thou  hast  hung  in  Heaven, 

Dividing  clear  the  paths  of  night  and  day  ; 

And  Asgard  thou  didst  build,  and  Midgard  Fort : 

Then  me  thou  mad'st ;  of  us  the  Gods  were  born  : 

Then,  walking  by  the  sea,  thou  foundest  spars 

Of  wood,  and  framed'st  men,  who  till  the  earth, 

Or  on  the  sea,  the  field  of  pirates,  sail : 

And  all  the  race  of  Ymir  thou  didst  drown, 

Save  one,  Bergelmer ;  he  on  shipboard  fled 

Thy  deluge,  and  from  him  the  Giants  sprang ; 

But  all  that  brood  thou  hast  removed  far  ofi". 

And  set  by  Ocean's  utmost  marge  to  dwell : 

But  Hela  into  Niflheim  thou  threw'st, 

And  gave  her  nine  unlighted  worlds  to  rule, 

A  Queen,  and  empire  over  all  the  dead. 

That  empire  wilt  thou  now  invade,  light  up 

Her  darkness,  from  her  grasp  a  subject  tear  ?  — 

Try  it ;  but  I,  for  one,  will  not  applaud. 

Nor  do  I  merit,  Odin,  thou  should'st  slight 

Me  and  my  words,  though  thou  be  first  in  Heaven : 

For  I  too  am  a  Goddess  born  of  thee, 


230  BALDER    DEAD. 

Thine  eldest,  and  of  me  the  Gods  are  sprung ; 

And  all  that  is  to  come  I  know,  but  lock 

In  my  own  breast,  and  have  to  none  reveal' d. 

Come  then  ;  since  Hela  holds  by  right  her  prey, 

But  offers  terms  for  his  release  to  Heaven, 

Accept  the  chance ;  —  thou  canst  no  more  obtain. 

Send  through  the  world  thy  messengers  :  entreat 

All  living  and  unliving  things  to  weep 

For  Balder  ;  if  thou  haply  thus  may'st  melt 

Hela,  and  win  the  lov'd  one  back  to  Heaven." 

She  spake,  and  on  her  face  let  fall  her  veil, 
And  bow'd  her  head,  and  sate  with  folded  hands. 
Nor  did  the  all-ruling  Odin  slight  her  word  ; 
Straightway  he  spake,  and  thus  address'd  the  Gods  : 

"  Go  quickly  forth  through  all  the  world,  and  pray 
All  living  and  unliving  things  to  weep 
Balder,  if  haply  he  may  thus  be  won." 

AVhen  the  Gods  heard,  they  straight  arose,  and  took 
Their  horses,  and  rode  forth  through  all  the  world. 
North,   south,  east,  west  they  struck,  and  roam'd  the 

world. 
Entreating  all  things  to  weep  Balder's  death : 
And  all  that  liv'd,  and  all  without  life  wept. 
And  as  in  winter,  when  the  frost  breaks  up, 
At  winter's  end,  before  the  spring  begins. 
And  a  warm  west  wind  blows,  and  thaw  sets  in  — 


BALDER   DEAD.  231 

After  an  hour  a  dripping  sound  is  heard 
In  all  the  forests,  and  the  soft-strewn  snow 
Under  the  trees  is  dibbled  thick  with  holes, 
And  from  the  boughs  the  snowloads  shuffle  down ; 
And  in  fields  sloping  to  the  south  dark  plots 
Of  grass  peep  out  amid  surrounding  snow, 
And  widen,  and  the  peasant's  heart  is  glad  — 
So  through  the  world  was  heard  a  dripping  noise 
Of  all  things  weeping  to  bring  Balder  back : 
And  there  fell  joy  upon  the  Gods  to  hear. 

But  Hermod  rode  with  Niord,  whom  he  took 
To  shew  him  spits  and  beaches  of  the  sea 
Far  off,  where  some  unwarn'd  might  fail  to  weep  — 
Niord,  the  God  of  storms,  whom  fishers  know : 
Not  born  in  Heaven  ;  he  was  in  Vanheim  rear'd, 
With  men,  but  lives  a  hostage  with  the  Gods  : 
He  knows  each  frith,  and  every  rocky  creek 
Fring'd   with  dark   pines,    and   sands   where   seafowl 

scream :  — 
They  two  scour' d  every  coast,  and  all  things  wept. 
And  they  rode  home  together,  through  the  wood 
Of  Jarnvid,  which  to  east  of  Midgard  lies 
Bordering  the  Giants,  where  the  trees  are  iron ; 
There  in  the  wood  before  a  cave  they  came 
Where  sate,  in  the  cave's  mouth,  a  skinny  Hag, 
Toothless  and  old ;  she  gibes  the  passers  by  : 
Thok  is  she  call'd  ;  but  now  Lok  wore  her  shape : 
She  greeted  them  the  first,  and  laugh' d,  and  said  :  — 


232  3ALDEB    DEAD. 

"  Ye  Gods,  good  lack,  is  it  so  dull  in  Heaven, 
That  ye  come  pleasuring  to  Thok's  Iron  Wood  ? 
Lovers  of  change  ye  are,  fastidious  sprites. 
Look,  as  in  some  boor's  yard  a  sweet-breath' d  cow 
Whose  manger  is  stuff 'd  full  of  good  fresh  hay 
Snuffs  at  it  daintily,  and  stoops  her  head 
To  chew  the  straw,  her  litter,  at  her  feet  -— 
So  ye  grow  squeamish,  Gods,  and  sniff  at  Heaven." 

She  spake ;  but  Hermod  answer'd  her  and  said  :  - 
"  Thok,  not  for  gibes  we  come,  we  come  for  tears. 
Balder  is  dead,  and  Hela  holds  her  prey, 
But  will  restore,  if  all  things  give  him  tears. 
Begrudge  not  thine  ;  to  all  was  Balder  dear." 

But,  with  a  louder  laugh,  the  Hag  replied  :  — 
"  Is  Balder  dead  ?  and  do  ye  come  for  tears  ? 
Thok  with  dry  eyes  will  weep  o'er  Balder's  pyre. 
Weep  him  all  other  things,  if  weep  they  will  — 
I  weep  him  not :  let  Hela  keep  her  prey  ! " 

She  spake ;  and  to  the  cavern's  depth  she  fled, 
Mocking  :  and  Hermod  knew  their  toil  was  vain. 
And  as  seafaring  men,  who  long  have  wrought 
In  the  great  deep  for  gain,  at  last  come  home. 
And  towards  evening  see  the  headlands  rise 
Of  their  own  country,  and  can  clear  descry 
A  fire  of  wither' d  furze  which  boys  have  lit 
Upon  the  cliffs,  or  smoke  of  burning  weeds 


BALDER    DEAD.  233 

Out  of  a  till'd  field  inland  :  —  then  tlie  wind 
Catches  them,  and  drives  out  again  to  sea : 
And  they  go  long  days  tossing  up  and  down 
Over  the  gray  sea  ridges  ;  and  the  glimpse 
Of  port  they  had  makes  bitterer  far  their  toil  — 
So  the  Gods'  cross  was  bitterer  for  their  joy. 

Then,  sad  at  heart,  to  Niord  Hermod  spake :  — 
"  It  is  the  Accuser  Lok,  who  flouts  us  all. 
Ride  back,  and  tell  in  Heaven  this  heavy  news. 
I  must  again  below,  to  Hela's  realm." 

He  spoke ;  and  Niord  set  forth  back  to  Heaven. 
But  northward  Hermod  rode,  the  way  below  ; 
The  way  he  knew  :  and  travers'd  Giall's  stream, 
And  down  to  Ocean  grop'd,  and  cross'd  the  ice, 
And  came  beneath  the  wall,  and  found  the  grate 
Still  lifted ;  well  was  his  return  foreknown. 
And  once  more  Hermod  saw  around  him  spread 
The  joyless  plains,  and  heard  the  streams  of  Hell. 
But  as  he  enter' d,  on  the  extremest  bound 
Of  Niflheim,  he  saw  one  Ghost  come  near. 
Hovering,  and  stopping  oft,  as  if  afraid ; 
Hoder,  the  unhappy,  whom  his  own  hand  slew  : 
And  Hermod  look'd,  and  knew  his  brother's  ghost. 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  and  sternly  said :  — 

"  Hoder,  ill-fated,  blind  in  heart  and  eyes  ! 
Why  tarriest  thou  to  plunge  thee  in  the  gulph 
15 


234  BALDER   DEAD. 

Of  the  deep  inner  gloom,  but  flittest  Here, 

In  twilight,  on  the  lonely  verge  of  Hell, 

Far  from  the  other  ghosts,  and  Hela's  throne  ? 

Doubtless  thou  fearest  to  meet  Balder's  voice,     ' 

Thy  brother,  whom  through  folly  thou  didst  slay." 

He  spoke  ;  but  Hoder  answer'd  him  and  said  :  — 
'*  Hermod  the  nimble,  dost  thou  still  pursue 
The  unhappy  with  reproach,  even  in  the  grave  ? 
For  this  I  died,  and  fled  beneath  the  gloom, 
Not  daily  to  endure  abhorring  Gods, 
Nor  with  a  hateful  presence  cumber  Heaven — 
And  canst  thou  not,  even  here,  pass  pitying  by  ? 
No  less  than  Balder  have  I  lost  the  light 
Of  Heaven,  and  communion  with  my  kin  : 
I  too  had  once  a  wife,  and  once  a  child, 
And  substance,  and  a  golden  house  in  Heaven  : 
But  all  I  left  of  my  own  act,  and  fled 
Below,  and  dost  thou  hate  me  even  here  ? 
Balder  upbraids  me  not,  nor  hates  at  all, 
Though  he  has  cause,  have  any  cause  ;  but  he, 
When  that  Avith  downcast  looks  I  hither  came. 
Stretch' d  forth  his  hand,  and,  with  benignant  voice, 
Welcome^  he  said,  if  there  be  welcome  here, 
Brother  and  fellow-sport  of  Lok  with  me. 
And  not  to  ofiend  thee,  Hermod,  nor  to  force 
My  hated  converse  on  thee,  came  I  up 
From  the  deep  gloom,  where  I  will  now  return ; 
But  earnestly  I  long'd  to  hover  near, 


BALDER    DEAD.  235 

Not  too  far  off,  wlien  that  thou  earnest  by, 

To  feel  the  presence  of  a  brother  God, 

And  hear  the  passage  of  a  horse  of  Heaven, 

For  the  last  time :  for  here  thou  com'st  no  more." 

He  spake,  and  turn'd  to  go  to  the  inner  gloom. 
But  Hermod  stay'd  him  with  mild  words,  and  said  :  — 

"  Thou  doest  well  to  chide  me,  Hoder  blind. 
Truly  thou  say'st,  the  planning  guilty  mind 
Was  Lok's ;  the  unwitting  hand  alone  was  thine. 
But  Gods  are  like  the  sons  of  men  in  this  — 
When  they  have  woe,  they  blame  the  nearest  cause. 
Howbeit  stay,  and  be  appeas'd;  and  tell  — 
Sits  Balder  still  in  pomp  by  Hela's  side, 
Or  is  he  mingled  with  the  unnumber'd  dead  ?  " 

And  the  blind  Hoder  answer'd  him  and  spake  :  — 
"  His  place  of  state  remains  by  Hela's  side, 
But  empty  :  for  his  wife,  for  Nanna  came 
Lately  below,  and  join'd  him ;  and  the  Pair 
Frequent  the  still  recesses  of  the  realm 
Of  Hela,  and  hold  converse  undisturb'd. 
But  they  too  doubtless,  will  have  breath'd  the  balm 
Which  floats  before  a  visitant  from  Heaven, 
And  have  drawn  upwards  to  this  verge  of  Hell." 

He  spake ;  and,  as  he  ceas'd,  a  puff  of  wind 
RoU'd  heavily  the  leaden  mist  aside 


236  BALDEB   DEAD. 

Round  where  they  stood,  and  they  beheld  Two  Forms 
Make  towards  them  o'er  the  stretching  cloudy  plain. 
And  Hermod  straight  perceiv'd  them,  who  they  were, 
Balder  and  Nanna ;  and  to  Balder  said  :  — 

"  Balder,  too  truly  thou  foresaw'st  a  snare. 
Lok  triumphs  still,  and  Hela  keeps  her  prey. 
No  more  to  xlsgard  shalt  thou  come,  nor  lodge 
In  thy  own  house,  Breidablik,  nor  enjoy 
The  love  all  bear  towards  thee,  nor  train  up 
Forset,  thy  son,  to  be  belov'd  like  thee. 
Here  must  thou  lie,  and  wait  an  endless  age. 
Therefore  for  the  last  time,  0  Balder,  hail !" 

He  spake  ;  and  Balder  answer' d  him  and  said :  — 
"  Hail  and  farewell,  for  here  thou  com'st  no  more. 
Yet  mourn  not  for  me,  Hermod,  when  thou  sitt'st 
In  Heaven,  nor  let  the  other  Gods  lament, 
As  wholly  to  be  pitied,  quite  forlorn  : 
For  Nanna  hath  rejoin' d  me,  who,  of  old. 
In  Heaven,  was  seldom  parted  from  my  side ; 
And  still  the  acceptance  follows  me,  which  crown'd 
My  former  life,  and  cheers  me  even  here. 
The  iron  frown  of  Hela  is  relax' d 
When  I  draw  nigh,  and  the  wan  tribes  of  dead 
Trust  me,  and  gladly  bring  for  my  award 
Their  ineffectual  feuds  and  feeble  hates, 
Shadows  of  hates,  but  they  distress  them  stilL'* 


BALDER   DEAD.  2^7 

And  tlie  fleet-footed  Hermod  made  reply  :  — 
*'  Thou  hast  then  all  the  solace  death  allows, 
Esteem  and  function :   and  so  far  is  well. 
Yet  here  thou  liest,  Balder,  underground, 
Rusting  forever :  and  the  years  roll  on, 
The  generations  pass,  the  ages  grow. 
And  bring  us  nearer  to  the  final  day 
When  from  the  south  shall  march  the  Fiery  Band 
And  cross  the  Bridge  of  Heaven,  with  Lok  for  guide. 
And  Fenris  at  his  heel  with  broken  chain  : 
While  from  the  east  the  Giant  Rymer  steers 
His  ship,  and  the  great  Serpent  makes  to  land ; 
And  all  are  marshall'd  in  one  flaming  square 
Against  the  Gods,  upon  the  plains  of  Heaven. 
I  mourn  thee,  that  thou  canst  not  help  us  then." 

He  spake  ;  but  Balder  answer'd  him  and  said  :  — 
"  Mourn  not  for  me  :  Mourn,  Hermod,  for  the  Gods  : 
Mourn  for  the  men  on  Earth,  the  Gods  in  Heaven, 
Who  live,  and  with  their  eyes  shall  see  that  day. 
The  day  will  come,  when  Asgard's  towers  shall  fall, 
And  Odin,  and  his  Sons,  the  seed  of  Heaven  : 
But  what  were  I,  to  save  them  in  that  hour  ? 
If  strength  could  save  them,  could  not  Odin  save. 
My  Father,  and  his  pride,  the  Warrior  Thor, 
Vidar  the  Silent,  the  Impetuous  Tyr  ? 
I,  what  were  I,  when  these  can  nought  avail  ? 
Yet,  doubtless,  when  the  day  of  battle  comes. 
And  the  two  Hosts  are  marshall'd,  and  in  Heaven 


238  BALDER  DEAD. 

The  golden-crested  Cock  shall  sound  alarm, 

And  his  black  Brother-Bird  from  hence  reply, 

And  bucklers  clash,  and  spears  begin  to  pour  — 

Longing  will  stir  within  my  breast,  though  vain. 

But  not  to  me  so  grievous,  as,  I  know. 

To  other  Gods  it  were,  is  my  enforc'd 

Absence  from  fields  where  I  could  nothing  aid  : 

For  I  am  long  since  weary  of  your  storm 

Of  carnage,  and  find,  Hermod,  in  your  life 

Something  too  much  of  war  and  broils,  which  make 

Life  one  perpetual  fight,  a  bath  of  blood. 

Mine  eyes  are  dizzy  with  the  arrowy  hail ; 

Mine  ears  are  stunn'd  with  blows,  and  sick  for  calm. 

Inactive  therefore  let  me  lie,  in  gloom. 

Unarm' d,  inglorious  :   I  attend  the  course 

Of  ages,  and  my  late  return  to  light. 

In  times  less  alien  to  a  spirit  mild, 

In  new-recover'd  seats,  the  happier  day." 

He  spake  ;  and  the  fleet  Hermod  thus  replied  :  — 
"  Brother,  what  seats  are  these,  what  happier  day  ? 
Tell  me,  that  I  may  ponder  it  when  gone." 

And  the  ray-crowned  Balder  answer'd  him :  — 
"  Far  to  the  south,  beyond  The  Blue,  there  spreads 
Another  Heaven,  The  Boundless  :  no  one  yet 
Hath  reached  it :  there  hereafter  shall  arise 
The  second  Asgard,  with  another  name. 
Thither,  when  o'er  this  present  Earth  and  Heavens 


BALDER   DEAD.  2S9 

The  tempest  of  the  latter  days  hath  swept, 

And  they  from  sight  have  disappear'd,  and  sunk, 

Shall  a  small  remnant  of  the  Gods  repair  : 

Hoder  and  I  shall  join  them  from  the  grave. 

There  reassembling  we  shall  see  emerge 

From  the  bright  Ocean  at  our  feet  an  Earth 

More  fresh,  more  verdant  than  the  last,  with  fruits 

Self- springing,  and  a  seed  of  man  preserved. 

Who  then  shall  live  in  peace,  as  now  in  war. 

But  we  in  Heaven  shall  find  again  with  joy 

The  ruin'd  palaces  of  Odin,  seats 

Familiar,  halls  where  we  have  supp'd  of  old ; 

Reenter  them  with  wonder,  never  fill 

Our  eyes  with  gazing,  and  rebuild  with  tears. 

And  we  shall  tread  once  more  the  well-known  plain 

Of  Ida,  and  among  the  grass  shall  find 

The  golden  dice  with  which  we  play'd  of  yore  ; 

And  that  will  bring  to  mind  the  former  life 

And  pastime  of  the  Gods,  the  wise  discourse 

Of  Odin,  the  delights  of  other  days. 

0  Hermod,  pray  that  thou  mayst  join  us  then  ! 
Such  for  the  future  is  my  hope  :  meanwhile, 

1  rest  the  thrall  of  Hela,  and  endure 

Death,  and  the  gloom  which  round  me  even  now 
Thickens,  and  to  its  inner  gulph  recalls. 
Farewell,  for  longer  speech  is  not  allow' d." 

He  spoke,  and  wav'd  farewell,  and  gave  his  hand 
To  Nanna  ;  and  she  gave  their  brother  blind 


246  BALDER    DEAD. 

Her  hand,  in  turn,  for  guidance ;  and  The  Three 

Departed  o'er  the  cloudy  plain,  and  soon 

Faded  from  sight  into  the  interior  gloom. 

But  Hermod  stood  beside  his  drooping  horse, 

Mute,  gazing  after  them  in  tears  :  and  fain, 

Fain  had  he  follow' d  their  receding  steps, 

Though  they  to  Death  were  bound,  and  he  to  Heaven, 

Then ;  but  a  Power  he  could  not  break  withheld. 

And  as  a  stork  which  idle  boys  have  trapp'd, 

And  tied  him  in  a  yard,  at  autumn  sees 

Flocks  of  his  kind  pass  flying  o'er  his  head 

To  warmer  lands,  and  coasts  that  keep  the  sun  ; 

He  strains  to  join  their  flight,  and,  from  his  shed, 

Follows  them  with  a  long  complaining  cry  — 

So  Hermod  gaz'd,  and  yearn' d  to  join  his  kin. 


At  last  he  sigh'd,  and  set  forth  back  to  Heaven. 


THE  SICK  KING  IN  BOKHARA, 


HUSSEIN. 


O  MOST  just  Vizier,  send  away 
The  cloth-mercliants,  and  let  them  be, 
Them  and  their  dues,  this  day  :   the  King 
Is  ill  at  ease,  and  calls  for  thee. 


THE  VIZIEE. 

O  merchants,  tarry  yet  a  day 
Here  in  Bokhara :  but  at  noon 
To-morrow,  come,  and  ye  shall  pay 
Each  fortieth  web  of  cloth  to  me. 
As  the  law  is,  and  go  your  way. 

O  Hussein,  lead  me  to  the  King. 
Thou  teller  of  sweet  tales,  thine  own, 
Ferdousi's,  and  the  others',  lead. 
How  is  it  with  my  lord  ? 


242  THE    SICK    KING    IN    BOKHARA. 


HUSSEIN. 

Alone, 
Ever  since  prayer-time,  he  doth  wait, 
O  Vizier,  without  lying  down, 
In  the  great  window  of  the  gate. 
Looking  into  the  Registan  ; 
Where  through  the  sellers'  booths  the  slaves 
Are  this  way  bringing  the  dead  man. 
O  Vizier,  here  is  the  King's  door. 

THE    KING. 

O  Vizier,  I  may  bury  him  ? 

THE    VIZIER. 

O  King,  thou  know'st,  I  have  been  sick 
These  many  days,  and  heard  no  thing, 
(For  Allah  shut  my  ears  and  mind) 
Not  even  what  thou  dost,  O  King. 
Wherefore,  that  I  may  counsel  thee. 
Let  Hussein,  if  thou  wilt,  make  haste 
To  speak  in  order  what  hath  chanc'd. 

THE    KING. 

O  Vizier,  be  it  as  thou  say'st. 

HUSSEIN. 

Three  days  since,  at  the  time  of  prayer. 


THE    SICK    KING    IN    BOKHAKA.  243 

A  certain  Moollali,  witli  his  robe 

All  rent,  and  dust  upon  his  hair, 

Watch' d  my  lord's  coming  forth,  and  push'd 

The  golden  mace-bearers  aside, 

And  fell  at  the  King's  feet,  and  cried  ; 

"  Justice,  O  King,  and  on  myself ! 
On  this  great  sinner,  who  hath  broke 
The  law,  and  by  the  law  must  die  ! 
Vengeance,  O  King  !  " 

But  the  King  spoke : 
"  What  fool  is  this,  that  hurts  our  ears 
With  folly  ?  or  what  drunken  slave  ? 
My  guards,  what,  prick  him  with  your  spears  !' 
Prick  me  the  fellow  from  the  path  ! " 
As  the  King  said,  so  was  it  done, 
And  to  the  mosque  my  lord  pass'd  on. 

But  on  the  morrow,  when  the  King 
Went  forth  again,  the  holy  book 
Carried  before  him,  as  is  right. 
And  through  the  square  his  path  he  took ; 

My  man  comes  running,  fleck'd  with  blood 
From  yesterday,  and  falling  down 
Cries  out  most  earnestly  ;  "  O  King, 
My  lord,  O  King,  do  right,  I  pray  ! 


244  THE    SICK    KING    IN    BOKHARA. 

"  How  can'st  thou,  ere  thou  hear,  discern 
If  I  speak  folly  ?  but  a  king, 
"Whether  a  thing  be  great  or  small, 
Like  Allah,  hears  and  judges  all. 

"  Wherefore  hear  thou !    Thou  know'st,  how  fierce 
In  these  last  days  the  sun  hath  burn'd : 
That  the  green  water  in  the  tanks 
Is  to  a  putrid  puddle  turn'd  : 
And  the  canal,  that  from  the  stream 
J      _   Of  Samarcand  is  brought  this  way, 
Wastes,  and  runs  thinner  every  day. 

"  Now  I  at  nightfall  had  gone  forth 
Alone,  and  in  a  darksome  place 
Under  some  mulberry  trees  I  found 
A  little  pool ;  and  in  brief  space 
"With  all  the  water  that  was  there 
I  fill'd  my  pitcher,  and  stole  home 
Unseen  ;  and  having  drink  to  spare, 
I  hid  the  can  behind  the  door. 
And  went  up  on  the  roof  to  sleep. 

"  But  in  the  night,  which  was  with  wind 
And  burning  dust,  again  I  creep 
Down,  having  fever,  for  a  drink. 

"  Now  meanwhile  had  my  brethren  found 
The  water-pitcher  where  it  stood 


THE    SICK    KING    IN    BOKHAKA.  245 

Behind  the  door  upon  the  ground, 
And  call'd  my  mother  :  and  they  all, 
As  they  were  thirsty,  and  the  night 
Most  sultry,  drain' d  the  pitcher  there  ; 
That  they  sate  with  it,  in  my  sight. 
Their  lips  still  wet,  when  I  came  down. 

"  Now  mark  !     I,  being  fever'd,  sick, 
(Most  unblest  also)  at  that  sight 
Brake  forth,  and  curs' d  them  —  dost  thou  hear?  — 
One  was  my  mother Now,  do  right !  " 

But  my  lord  mus'd  a  space,  and  said, 
"  Send  him  away,  sirs,  and  make  on. 
It  is  some  madman,"  the  King  said  : 
As  the  King  said,  so  was  it  done. 

The  morrow  at  the  self-same  hour 
In  the  King's  path,  behold,  the  man, 
Not  kneeling,  sternly  fix'd  :  he  stood 
Bight  opposite,  and  thus  began, 
Frowning  grim  down  :  —  "  Thou  wicked  King, 
Most  deaf  where  thou  shouldst  most  give  ear ! 
What,  must  I  howl  in  the  next  world. 
Because  thou  wilt  not  listen  here  ? 

"What,  wilt  thou  pray,  and  get  thee  grace. 
And  all  grace  shall  to  me  be  grudg'd  ? 
Nay  but,  I  swear,  from  this  thy  path 
I  will  not  stir  till  I  be  judg'd." 


246  THE    SICK    KING    IN    BOKHARA. 

Then  they  who  stood  about  the  King 
Drew  close  together  and  conferr'd  : 
Till  that  the  King  stood  forth  and  said, 
"  Before  the  priests  thou  shalt  be  heard." 

But  when  the  Ulemas  were  met 
And  the  thing  heard,  they  doubted  not ; 
But  sentenc'd  him,  as  the  law  is, 
To  die  by  stoning  on  the  spot. 

Now  the  King  charg'd  us  secretly  : 
"  Ston'd  must  he  be,  the  law  stands  so  : 
Yet,  if  he  seek  to  fly,  give  way : 
Forbid  him  not,  but  let  him  go." 

So  saying,  the  King  took  a  stone. 
And  cast  it  softly  :  but  the  man. 
With  a  great  joy  upon  his  face. 
Kneel' d  down,  and  cried  not,  neither  ran. 

So  they,  whose  lot  it  was,  cast  stones  ; 
That  they  flew  thick  and  bruis'd  him  sore 
But  he  prais'd  Allah  with  loud  voice, 
And  remain' d  kneeling  as  before. 

My  lord  had  cover' d  up  his  face  : 
But  when  one  told  him,  "  He  is  dead," 
Turning  him  quickly  to  go  in, 
*'  Bring  thou  to  me  his  corpse,"  he  said. 


THE    SICK    KING    IN    BOKHARA.  247 

And  truly,  while  I  speak,  O  King, 
I  hear  the  bearers  on  the  stair. 
Wilt  thou  they  straightway  bring  him  in  } 
—  Ho  !  enter  ye  who  tarry  there  ! 

THE    VIZIER. 

O  King,  in  this  I  praise  thee  not. 
Now  must  I  call  thy  grief  not  wise. 
Is  he  thy  friend,  or  of  thy  blood. 
To  find  such  favor  in  thine  eyes  ? 

Nay,  were  he  thine  own  mother's  son, 
Still,  thou  art  king,  and  the  Law  stands. 
It  were  not  meet  the  balance  swerv'd, 
The  sword  were  broken  in  thy  hands. 

But  being  nothing,  as  he  is, 
Why  for  no  cause  make  sad  thy  face  .'' 
Lo,  I  am  old  :  three  kings,  ere  thee, 
Have  I  seen  reigning  in  this  place. 

But  who,  through  all  this  length  of  time, 
Could  bear  the  burden  of  his  years, 
If  he  for  strangers  pain'd  his  heart 
Not  less  than  those  who  merit  tears  ? 

Fathers  we  must  have,  wife  and  child ; 
And  grievous  is  the  grief  for  these : 


248  THE    SICK    KING    IN    BOKHARA. 

This  pain  alone,  which  must  be  borne, 
Makes  the  head  white,  and  bows  the  knees. 

But  other  loads  than  this  his  own 
One  man  is  not  well  made  to  bear. 
Besides,  to  each  are  his  own  friends, 
To  mourn  with  him,  and  shew  him  care. 

Look,  this  is  but  one  single  place, 
Though  it  be  great :  all  the  earth  round, 
If  a  man  bear  to  have  it  so. 
Things  which  might  vex  him  shall  be  found. 

Upon  the  Russian  frontier,  where 
The  watchers  of  two  armies  stand 
Near  one  another,  many  a  man, 
Seeking  a  prey  unto  his  hand. 

Hath  snatch' d  a  little  fair-hair' d  slave : 
They  snatch  also,  towards  Merve, 
The  Shiah  dogs,  who  pasture  sheep, 
And  up  from  thence  to  Orgunje. 

And  these  all,  laboring  for  a  lord, 
Eat  not  the  fruit  of  their  own  hands : 
Which  is  the  heaviest  of  all  plagues. 
To  that  man's  mind,  who  imderstands. 


THE    SICK    KING    IN    BOKHAKA.  249 

The  kaffirs  also  (whom  God  curse  !) 
Vex  one  another,  night,  and  day : 
There  are  the  lepers,  and  all  sick  : 
There  are  the  poor  who  faint  alway. 

All  these  have  sorrow,  and  keep  still, 
Whilst  other  men  make  cheer,  and  sing. 
Wilt  thou  have  pity  on  all  these  ? 
No,  nor  on  this  dead  dog,  O  King ! 


THE    KING. 

O  Vizier,  thou  art  old,  I  young. 
Clear  in  these  things  I  cannot  see. 
My  head  is  burning  ;  and  a  heat 
Is  in  my  skin  which  angers  me. 

But  hear  ye  this,  ye  sons  of  men ! 
They  that  bear  rule,  and  are  obey'd, 
Unto  a  rule  more  strong  than  theirs 
Are  in  their  turn  obedient  made. 

In  vain  therefore,  with  wistful  eyes 
Gazing  up  hither,  the  poor  man, 
Who  loiters  by  the  high-heap'd  booths, 
Below  there,  in  the  Registaln, 
16 


250  THE    SICK    KING    IN    BOKHARA. 

Says,  "  Happy  lie,  who  lodges  there  ! 
With  silken  raiment,  store  of  rice, 
And  for  this  drought,  all  kinds  of  fruits, 
Grape  syrup,  squares  of  color' d  ice, 

"With  cherries  serv'd  in  drifts  of  snow." 
In  vain  hath  a  king  power  to  build 
Houses,  arcades,  enamell'd  mosques  ; 
And  to  make  orchard  closes,  fill'd 

With  curious  fruit  trees,  bought  from  far ; 
With  cisterns  for  the  winter  rain ; 
And  in  the  desert,  spacious  inns 
In  divers  places  ;  —  if  that  pain 

Is  not  more  lighten'd,  which  he  feels. 
If  his  will  be  not  satisfied  : 
And  that  it  be  not,  from  all  time 
The  Law  is  planted,  to  abide. 

Thou  wert  a  sinner,  thou  poor  man  ! 
Thoii  wert  athirst ;  and  didst  not  see, 
That,  though  we  snatch  what  we  desire. 
We  must  not  snatch  it  eagerly. 

And  I  have  meat  and  drink  at  will, 
And  rooms  of  treasures,  not  a  few. 
But  I  am  sick,  nor  heed  I  these  : 
And  what  I  would,  I  cannot  do. 


THE    SICK    KING    IN    BOKHARA.  251 

Even  the  great  honor  which  I  have, 
When  I  am  dead,  will  soon  grow  still. 
So  have  I  neither  joy,  nor  fame. 
But  what  I  can  do,  that  I  will. 

I  have  a  fretted  brick- work  tomb 
Upon  a  hill  on  the  right  hand, 
Hard  by  a  close  of  apricots, 
Upon  the  road  of  Samarcand : 

Thither,  O  Vizier,  will  I  bear 
This  man  my  pity  could  not  save  ; 
And,  plucking  up  the  marble  flags, 
There  lay  his  body  in  my  grave. 

Bring  water,  nard,  and  linen  rolls. 
Wash  off  all  blood,  set  smooth  each  limb. 
Then  say  ;  "  He  was  not  wholly  vile, 
Because  a  king  shall  bury  him." 


THE  HARP-PLAYER  ON  ETNA. 
I. 

THE    LAST    GLEN. 


The  track  winds  down  to  the  clear  stream, 
To  cross  the  sparkling  shallows  :  there 
The  cattle  love  to  gather,  on  their  way 
To  the  high  mountain  pastures,  and  to  stay, 
Till  the  rough  cow-herds  drive  them  past, 
Knee-deep  in  the  cool  ford  :  for  'tis  the  last 
Of  all  the  woody,  high,  well-water' d  dells 
On  Etna  ;  and  the  beam 
Of  noon  is  broken  there  by  chestnut  boughs 
Down  its  steep  verdant  sides  :  the  air 
Is  freshen' d  by  the  leaping  stream,  which  throws 
Eternal  showers  of  spray  on  the  moss'd  roots 
Of  trees,  and  veins  of  turf,  and  long  dark  shoots 
Of  ivy-plants,  and  fragrant  hanging  bells 
Of  hyacinths,  and  on  late  anemones, 
That  muffle  its  wet  banks :  but  glade, 
And  stream,  and  sward,  and  chestnut  trees, 


THE    HAKP-PLAYER    OX    ETNA.  253 

End  here  :  Etna  beyond,  in  the  broad  glare 
Of  the  hot  noon,  without  a  shade, 
Slope  behind  slope,  up  to  the  peak,  lies  bare ; 
The  peak,  round  which  the  white  clouds  play. 

In  such  a  glen,  on  such  a  day, 
On  Pelion,  on  the  grassy  ground, 
Chiron,  the  aged  Centaur,  lay ; 
The  young  Achilles  standing  by. 
The  Centaur  taught  him  to  explore 
The  mountains  :   where  the  glens  are  dry. 
And  the  tir'd  Centaurs  come  to  rest, 
And  where  the  soaking  springs  abound. 
And  the  straight  ashes  grow  for  spears. 
And  where  the  hill-goats  come  to  feed. 
And  the  sea-eagles  build  their  nest. 
He  show'd  him  Phthia  far  away, 
And  said  —  0  Boy^  I  taught  this  lore 
To  Peleus,  in  long-distant  years.  — 
He  told  him  of  the  Gods,  the  stars, 
The  tides  :  —  and  then  of  mortal  wars, 
And  of  the  life  that  Heroes  lead 
Before  they  reach  the  Elysian  place 
And  rest  in  the  immortal  mead ; 

And  all  the  wisdom  of  his  race. 


254  THE    HAEP-PLAYEK    ON    ETNA, 


II. 
T  Y  P  H  0  . 


The  lyre's  voice  is  lovely  everywhere. 
In  the  court  of  Gods,  in  the  city  of  men, 
And  in  the  lonely  rock-strewn  mountain  glen, 
In  the  still  mountain  air. 

Only  to  Typho  it  sounds  hatefully, 
Only  to  Typho,  the  rebel  o'erthrown, 
Through  whose  heart  Etna  drives  her  roots  of  stone, 
To  imbed  them  in  the  sea. 

Wherefore  dost  thou  groan  so  loud? 
Wherefore  do  thy  nostrils  flash, 
Through  the  dark  night,  suddenly, 
Typho,  such  red  jets  of  flame  ? 
Is  thy  tortur'd  heart  still  proud? 
Is  thy  fire-scath'd  arm  still  rash  ? 
Still  alert  thy  stone-crush' d  frame  ? 

Does  thy  fierce  soul  still  deplore 
Thy  ancient  rout  in  the  Cilician  hills, 
And  that  curst  treachery  on  the  Mount  of  Gore? 

Do  thy  bloodshot  eyes  still  see 


THE    HARP-PLAYER    OX   ETNA.  255 

The  fight  that  crown'd  thy  ills, 

Thy  last  defeat  in  this  Sicilian  sea  ? 

Hast  thou  sworn,  in  thy  sad  lair, 

Where  erst  the  strong  sea-currents  suck'd  thee  down 

Never  to  cease  to  writhe,  and  try  to  sleep, 

Letting  the  sea-stream  wander  through  thy  hair  ? 

That  thy  groans,  like  thunder  deep. 

Begin  to  roll,  and  almost  drown 

The  sweet  notes,  whose  lulling  spell 

Gods  and  the  race  of  mortals  love  so  well, 

When  through  thy  caves  thou  hearest  music  swell  ? 

But  an  av/ful  pleasure  bland 
Spreading  o'er  the  Thunderer's  face. 
When  the  sound  climbs  near  his  seat, 
The  Olympian  Council  sees  ; 
As  he  lets  his  lax  right  hand, 
Which  the  lightnings  doth  embrace. 
Sink  upon  his  mighty  knees. 

And  the  Eagle,  at  the  beck 
Of  the  appeasing  gracious  harmony. 
Droops  all  his  sheeny,  brown,  deep-feather' d  neck, 
Nestling  nearer  to  Jove's  feet ; 
While  o'er  his  sovereign  eye 
The  curtains  of  the  blue  films  slowly  meet. 

And  the  white  Olympus  peaks 
Rosily  brighten,  and  the  sooth' d  Gods  smile 
At  one  another  from  their  golden  chairs  ; 
And  no  one  round  the  charmed  circle  speaks. 


256  THE    HARP-PLAYEK    ON    ETNA. 

Only  the  lov'd  Hebe  bears 
The  cup  about  whose  draughts  beguile 
Pain  and  care,  with  a  dark  store 
Of  fresh-pull'd  violets  wreath'd  and  nodding  o'er  ; 

And  her  flush' d  feet  glow  on  the  marble  floor. 


THE    HAHP-PLAYEK    ON    ETNA.  257 


III. 

M  A  R  S  Y  A  S  . 

As  the  sky-brightening  South-wind  clears  the  day 
And  makes  the  mass'd  clouds  roll, 
The  music  of  the  lyre  blows  away 
The  clouds  that  wrap  the  soul. 

Oh  that  Fate  had  let  me  see 
That  triumph  of  the  sweet  persuasive  lyre, 
That  famous,  final  victory. 
When  jealous  Pan  with  Marsyas  did   conspire  ; 

When,  from  far  Parnassus'  side, 
Young  Apollo,  all  the  pride 
Of  the  Phrygian  flutes  to  tame. 
To  the  Phrygian  highlands  came  : 
Where  the  long  green  reed-beds  sway 
In  the  rippled  waters  gray 
Of  that  solitary  lake 
Where  Mseander's  springs  are  born  : 
Whence  the  ridg'd  pine-muffled  roots 
Of  Messogis  westward  break. 
Mounting  westward,  high  and  higher  : 

There  was  held  the  famous  strife  ; 


258  THE    HAHP-PLAYER    ON    ETNA. 

There  the  Phrygian  brought  his  flutes, 
And  Apollo  brought  his  lyre, 
And,  when  now  the  westering  sun 
Touch' d  the  hills,  the  strife  was  done. 
And  the  attentive  Muses  said, 
Marsyas  !  tJiou  art  vanquished. 

Then  Apollo's  minister 
Hang'd  upon  a  branching  fir 
Marsyas,  that  unhappy  Faun, 
And  began  to  whet  his  knife. 
But  the  Msenads,  who  were  there. 
Left  their  friend,  and  with  robes  flowing 
In  the  wind,  and  loose  dark  hair 
O'er  their  polish'd  bosoms  blowing. 
Each  her  ribbon' d  tambourine 
Flinging  on  the  mountain  sod, 
With  a  lovely  frighten' d  mien 
Came  about  the  youthful  God. 
But  he  turn'd  his  beauteous  face 
Haughtily  another  way. 
From  the  grassy  sun-warm'd  place. 
Where  in  proud  repose  he  lay. 
With  one  arm  over  his  head. 
Watching  how  the  whetting  sped. 

But  aloof,  on  the  lake  strand, 
Did  the  young  Olympus  stand, 
Weeping  at  his  master's  end  ; 
For  the  Faun  had  been  his  friend. 


THE    HAEP-PLAYER    ON    ETNA.  259 

For  he  taught  him  how  to  sing, 
And  he  taught  him  flute-playing. 
Many  a  morning  had  they  gone 
To  the  glimmering  mountain  lakes, 
And  had  torn  up  by  the  roots 
The  tall  crested  water  reeds 
With  long  plumes  and  soft  brown  seeds, 
And  had  carv'd  them  into  flutes, 
Sitting  on  a  tabled  stone 
Where  the  shoreward  ripple  breaks. 

And  he  taught  him  how  to  please 
The  red-snooded  Phrygian  girls. 
Whom  the  summer  evening  sees 
Flashing  in  the  dance's  whirls 
Underneath  the  starlit  trees 
In  the  mountain  villages. 

Therefore  now  Olympus  stands, 
At  his  master's  piteous  cries, 
Pressing  fast  with  both  his  hands 
His  white  garment  to  his  eyes. 
Not  to  see  Apollo's  scorn. 

Ah,  poor  Faun,  poor  Faun !  ah,  poor  Faun  ! 


260  THE    HAEP-PLAYER    ON    ETNA. 


IV. 

APOLLO 


Through  the  black,  rushing  smoke-bursts, 
Quick  breaks  the  red  flame  ; 
All  Etna  heaves  fiercely 
Her  forest-cloth' d  frame  : 

Not  here,  O  Apollo  ! 
Are  haunts  meet  for  thee. 
But,  where  Helicon  breaks  down 
In  cliff"  to  the  sea. 

Where  the  moon-silver' d*inlets 
Send  far  their  light  voice 
Up  the  still  vale  of  Thisbe, 
O  speed,  and  rejoice  ! 

On  the  sward,  at  the  cliff'-top, 
Lie  strewn  the  white  flocks  ; 
On  the  cliff'-side  the  pigeons 
Roost  deep  in  the  rocks. 


THE    HARP-PIiAYEB    ON    ETNA.  261 

In  the  moonlight  the  shepherds, 
Soft  lull'd  by  the  rills,  . 

Lie  wrapt  in  their  blankets, 
Asleep  on  the  hills. 

—  What  Forms  are  these  coming 
So  white  through  the  gloom  7 
What  garments  out- glistening 

The  gold-flower' d  broom  7 

—  What  sweet-breathing  Presence 
Out-perfumes  the  thyme  7 

What  voices  enrapture 

The  night's  balmy  prime  7  — 

'Tis  Apollo  comes  leading 
His  choir,  The  Nine. 
—  The  Leader  is  fairest. 
But  all  are  divine. 

They  are  lost  in  the  hollows. 
They  stream  up  again. 
What  seeks  on  this  mountain 
The  glorified  train  7  — 

They  bathe  on  this  mountain, 
In  the  spring  by  their  road. 
Then  on  to  Olympus, 
Their  endless  abode. 


262  THE    HARP-PLAYER    ON    ETNA. 

—  Whose  praise  do  they  mention  7 
Of  what  is  it  told  ?  — 
What  will  be  forever. 
"What  was  from  of  old. 

First  hymn  they  the  Father 
Of  all  things  :  and  then 
The  rest  of  Immortals, 
The  action  of  men. 

The  Day  in  its  hotness, 
The  strife  with  the  palm ; 
The  Night  in  its  silence, 
The  Stars  in  their  calm. 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  "ANTIGONE. 


THE    CHORTJS. 

Well  hatli  lie  done  who  hath  seiz'd  happiness. 
For  little  do  the  all-containing  Hours, 
Though  opulent,  freely  give. 

Who,  weighing  that  life  well 

Fortune  presents  unpray'd. 
Declines  her  ministry,  and  carves  his  own  : 

And,  justice  not  infring'd, 
Makes  his  own  welfare  his  unswerv'd-from  law. 

He  does  well  too,  who  keeps  that  clue  the  mild 
Birth-Goddess  and  the  austere  Fates  first  gave 
For  from  the  day  when  these 

Bring  him  a  weeping  child. 

First  to  the  light,  and  mark 
A  country  for  him,  kinsfolk,  and  a  home, 

Unguided  he  remains. 
Till  the  Fates  come  again,  alone,  with  death. 


264  FRAGMENT    OF    AN    "  ANTIGONE." 

In  little  companies, 
And,  our  own  place  once  left. 
Ignorant  where  to  stand,  or  whom  to  avoid, 
By  city   and   household   group' d,  we   live :    and  many 
shocks 
Our  order  heaven- ordain'd 
Must  every  day  endure. 
Voyages,  exiles,  hates,  dissensions,  wars. 
Besides  what  waste  He  makes, 
The  all-hated,  order-breaking, 
Without  friend,  city,  or  home. 
Death,  who  dissevers  all. 

Him  then  I  praise,  who  dares 

To  self-selected  good 
Prefer  obedience  to  the  primal  law, 
Which  consecrates  the  ties  of  blood  :  for  these,  indeed, 

Are  to  the  Gods  a  care  : 

That  touches  but  himself. 
For  every  day  man  may  be  link'd  and  loos'd 

With  strangers  :  but  the  bond 
Original,  deep-inwound, 

Of  blood,  can  he  not  bind : 

Nor,  if  Fate  binds,  not  bear. 

But  hush !     Hsemon,  whom  Antigone, 
Robbing  herself  of  life  in  burying, 
Against  Creon's  law,  Polynices, 
Robs  of  a  lov'd  bride  ;  pale,  imploring, 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  "  ANTIGONE."       265 

Waiting  her  passage, 
Forth  from  the  palace  hitherward  comes. 

h-s;mon. 
No,  no,  old  men,  Creon  I  curse  not. 
I  weep,  Thebans, 
One  than  Creon  crueller  far. 
For  he,  he,  at  least,  by  slaying  her, 
August  laws  doth  mightily  vindicate : 
But  thou,  too-bold,  headstrong,  pitiless. 
Ah  me  !  —  honorest  more  than  thy  lover, 

O  Antigone, 
A  dead,  ignorant,  thankless  corpse. 

THE    CHORUS. 

Nor  was  the  love  untrue 

Which  the  Dawn-Goddess  bore 

To  that  fair  youth  she  erst 

Leaving  the  salt  sea-beds 
And  coming  flush'd  over  the  stormy  frith 

Of  loud  Euripus,  saw  : 

Saw  and  snatch'd,  wild  with  love. 

From  the  pine-dotted  spurs 

Of  Fames,  where  thy  waves, 

Asopus,  gleam  rock-hemm'd ; 
The  Hunter  of  the  Tanagrsean  Field. 
But  him,  in  his  sweet  prime, 

By  severance  inmature, 
17 


266  PBAGMENT    OF    AN    "  ANTIGONE. 

By  Artemis'  soft  shafts, 

She,  though  a  Goddess  bom, 
Saw  in  the  rocky  isle  of  Delos  die. 

Such  end  o'ertook  that  love. 

For  she  desir'd  to  make 

Immortal  mortal  man, 

And  blend  his  happy  life. 

Far  from  the  Gods,  with  hers  : 
To  him  postponing  an  eternal  law. 

HJEMON. 

But,  like  me,  she,  wroth,  complaining, 
Succumb' d  to  the  envy  of  unkind  Gods  : 
And,  her  beautiful  arms  unclasping. 
Her  fair  Youth  unwillingly  gave. 

THE    CHOBTTS. 

Nor,  though,  enthron'd  too  high 
To  fear  assault  of  envious  Gods, 
His  belov'd  Argive  Seer  would  Zeus  retain 
From  his  appointed  end 
In  this  our  Thebes  :  but  when 

His  flying  steeds  came  near 
To  cross  the  steep  Ismenian  glen, 
The  broad  Earth  open'd  and  whelm' d  them  and  him. 
And  through  the  void  air  sang 
At  large  his  enemy's  spear. 


FEAGMfiNT    OF   AN    "ANTIGONE."  ^67 

And  fain  would  Zeus  have  sav'd  his  tired  son 
Beholding  him  where  the  Two  Pillars  stand 
O'er  the  sun-redden'd  Western  Straits: 
Or  at  his  work  in  that  dim  lower  world. 

Fain  would  he  have  recall' d 

The  fraudulent  oath  which  bound 
To  a  much  feebler  wight  the  heroic  man : 

But  he  preferr'd  Fate  to  his  strong  desire. 
Nor  did  their  need  less  than  the  burning  pile 
Under  the  towering  Trachis  crags, 
And  the  Spercheius'  vale,  shaken  with  groans, 
And  the  rous'd  Maliac  gulph, 
And  scar'd  QEtaean  snows. 
To  achieve  his  son's  deliverance,  O  my  child. 


MEMORIAL    VERSES 


APRIL,    1850 


Goethe  in  Weimar  sleeps,  and  Greece, 
Long  since,  saw  Byron's  struggle  cease. 
But  one  such  death  remain'd  to  come. 
The  last  poetic  voice  is  dumb. 
What  shall  be  said  o'er  Wordsworth's  tomb  ? 

When  Byron's  eyes  were  shut  in  death. 
We  bow'd  our  head  and  held  our  breath. 
He  taught  us  little  :  but  our  soul 
Had  felt  him  like  the  thunder's  roll. 

With  shivering  heart  the  strife  we  saw 
Of  Passion  with  Eternal  Law ; 
And  yet  with  reverential  awe 
We  watch' d  the  fount  of  fiery  life 
Which  serv'd  for  that  Titanic  strife. 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  269 

When  Goethe's  death  was  told,  we  said  — 
Sunk,  then,  is  Europe's  sagest  head. 
Physician  of  the  Iron  Age 
Goethe  has  done  his  pilgrimage. 
He  took  the  suffering  human  race, 
He  read  each  wound,  each  weakness  clear  — 
And  struck  his  finger  on  the  place 
And  said  —  Thou  ailest  here,  and  here.  — 
He  look'd  on  Europe's  dying  hour 
Of  fitful  dream  and  feverish  power  ; 
His  eye  plung'd  down  the  weltering  strife, 
The  turmoil  of  expiring  life  ; 
He  said  —  The  end  is  everywhere  : 
Art  still  has  truths  take  refuge  there. 
And  he  was  happy,  if  to  know 
Causes  of  things,  and  far  below 
His  feet  to  see  the  lurid  fiow 
Of  terror,  and  insane  distress, 
And  headlong  fate,  be  happiness. 

And  Wordsworth  !  —  Ah,  pale  Ghosts,  rejoice  ! 
For  never  has  such  soothing  voice 
Been  to  your  shadowy  world  convey'd, 
Since  erst,  at  morn,  some  wandering  shade 
Heard  the  clear  song  of  Orpheus  come 
Through  Hades,  and  the  mournful  gloom. 
Wordsworth  has  gone  from  us  —  and  ye, 
Ah,  may  ye  foel  his  voice  as  we. 
He  too  upon  a  wintry  clime 
Had  fallen  —  on  this  iron  time 


270  MEMORIAL    VERSES. 

Of  doubts,  disputes,  distractions,  fears. 
He  found  us  when  the  age  had  bound 
Our  souls  in  its  benumbing  round : 
He  spoke,  and  loos'd  our  heart  in  tears. 
He  laid  us  as  we  lay  at  birth 
On  the  cool  flowery  lap  of  earth  ; 
Smiles  broke  from  us  and  we  had  ease. 
The  hills  were  round  us,  and  the  breeze 
Went  o'er  the  sun-lit  fields  again : 
Our  foreheads  felt  the  wind  and  rain. 
Our  youth  return' d :  for  there  was  shed 
On  spirits  that  had  long  been  dead, 
Spirits  dried  up  and  closely-furl'd. 
The  freshness  of  the  early  world. 


Ah,  since  dark  days  still  bring  to  light 
Man's  prudence  and  man's  fiery  might, 
Time  may  restore  us  in  his  course 
Goethe's  sage  mind  and  Byron's  force : 
But  where  will  Europe's  latter  hour 
Again  find  Wordsworth's  healing  power  ? 
Others  will  teach  us  how  to  dare. 
And  against  fear  our  breast  to  steel : 
Others  will  strengthen  us  to  bear  — 
But  who,  ah  who,  will  make  us  feel  ? 
The  cloud  of  mortal  destiny. 
Others  will  front  it  fearlessly  — 
But  who,  like  him,  will  put  it  by  ? 


MEMOEIAL    TEHSES.  271 

Keep  fresh  tlie  grass  upon  his  grave, 
O  Rotha  !  with  thy  living  wave. 
Sing  him  thy  best !  for  few  or  none 
Hears  thy  voice  right,  now  he  is  gone. 


REVOLUTIONS. 


Before  Man  parted  for  this  earthly  strand, 
While  yet  upon  the  verge  of  heaven  he  stood, 
God  put  a  heap  of  letters  in  his  hand. 
And  bade  him  make  with  them  what  word  he  could. 

And  Man  has  turn'd  them  many  times :  made  Greece, 
Rome,  England,  France  :  — yes,  nor  in  vain  essay'd 
Way  after  way,  changes  that  never  cease. 
The  letters  have  combin'd :  something  was  made. 

But  ah,  an  inextinguishable  sense 
Haunts  him  that  he  has  not  made  what  he  should. 
That  he  has  still,  though  old,  to  recommence. 
Since  he  has  not  yet  found  the  word  God  would. 

And  Empire  after  Empire,  at  their  height 
Of  sway,  have  felt  this  boding  sense  come  on. 
Have  felt  their  huge  frames  not  constructed  right. 
And  droop'd,  and  slowly  died  upon  their  throne. 


REVOLUTIONS.  2Tl 

One  day  thou  say'st  there  will  at  last  appear 
The  word,  the  order,  which  God  meant  should  be.  — 
Ah,  we  shall  know  that  well  when  it  comes  near : 
The  band  will  quit  Man's  heart :  —  he  will  breathe  free. 


THE  WORLD  AND   THE  QUIETIST. 


TO     CBITIAS. 


Why,  when  the  World'' s  great  mind 
Hath  finally  inclined. 
Why,  you  say,  Critias,  le  delating  still  ? 
Why,  with  these  mournful  rhymes 
Learned  in  more  languid  climes. 
Blame  our  activity. 
Who,  with  such  passionate  will. 
Are,  what  we  mean  to  lei 

Critias,  long  since,  I  know, 

(For  Fate  decreed  it  so) 
Long  since  the  World  hath  set  its  heart  to  live. 

Long  since  with  credulous  zeal 
It  turns  Life's  mighty  wheel. 

Still  doth  for  laborers  send. 

Who  still  their  labor  give  ; 
And  still  expects  an  end. 


THE    WOKLD    AND    THE    QUIETIST.  275 

Yet,  as  the  -wheel  flies  round, 
With  no  ungrateful  sound 
Do  adverse  voices  fall  on  the  World's  ear. 
Deafen'd  by  his  own  stir 
The  rugged  Laborer 
Caught  not  till  then  a  sense 
So  glowing  and  so  near 
Of  his  omnipotence. 

So,  when  the  feast  grew  loud 
In  Susa's  palace  proud, 
A  white-rob'd  slave  stole  to  the  Monarch's  side. 
He  spoke  :  the  Monarch  heard : 
Felt  the  slow-rolling  word 
Swell  his  attentive  soul. 
Breath' d  deeply  as  it  died, 
And  drain'd  his  mighty  bowl. 


FADED    LEAVES 
I. 

THE    RIVER. 


Still  glides  the  stream,  slow  drops  the  boat 
Under  the  rustling  poplars'  shade ; 
Silent  the  swans  beside  us  float : 
None  speaks,  none  heeds  —  ah,  turn  thy  head. 

Let  those  arch  eyes  now  softly  shine. 
That  mocking  mouth  grow  sweetly  bland : 
Ah,  let  them  rest,  those  eyes,  on  mine ; 
On  mine  let  rest  that  lovely  hand. 

My  pent-up  tears  oppress  my  brain, 
Hy  heart  is  swoln  with  love  unsaid : 
Ah,  let  me  weep,  and  tell  my  pain, 
And  on  thy  shoulder  rest  my  head. 


FADED   LEAVES,  277 

Before  I  die,  before  the  soul, 
Which  now  is  mine,  must  re-attain 
Immunity  from  my  control. 
And  wander  round  the  world  again : 

Before  this  teas'd  o'erlabor'd  heart 
Forever  leaves  its  vain  employ, 
Dead  to  its  deep  habitual  smart, 
And  dead  to  hopes  of  future  joy. 


278  FADED    LEAYES. 


II. 

TOO    LATE. 


Each  on  his  own  strict  line  we  move, 
And  some  find  death  ere  they  find  love. 
So  far  apart  their  lives  are  thrown 
From  the  twin  soul  that  halves  their  own. 

And  sometimes,  by  still  harder  fate. 
The  lovers  meet,  but  meet  too  late. 

—  Thy  heart  is  mine  !  —  True,  true  !  ah  true  ! 

—  Then,  love,  thy  hand  !  —  Ah  no  !  adieu  ! 


FADED    liEAYES.  279 


III. 

SEPARATION. 


Stop  —  Not  to  me,  at  this  departing, 
Speak  of  the  sure  consolations  of  Time. 

Fresh  be  the  wound,  still-renew' d  be  its  smarting, 
So  but  thy  image  endure  in  its  prime. 

But,  if  the  steadfast  commandment  of  Nature 
Wills  that  remembrance  should  always  decay ; 

If  the  lov'd  form  and  the  deep-cherish' d  feature 
Must,  when  unseen,  from  the  soul  fade  away  — 

Me  let  no  half-ej0fac'd  memories  cumber ! 

Fled,  fled  at  once,  be  all  vestige  of  thee  — 
Deep  be  the  darkness,  and  still  be  the  slumber  — 

Dead  be  the  Past  and  its  phantoms  to  me  ! 

Then,  when  we  meet,  and  thy  look  strays  towards  me. 
Scanning  my  face  and  the  changes  wrought  there,  — 

Who^  let  me  say,  is  this  Stranger  regards  me, 
With  the  gray  eyes,  and  the  lovely  hrown  hair  ? 


280  FADED    LEAVES. 


IV. 

ON    THE    RHINE. 


Vain  is  the  effort  to  forget. 
Some  day  I  shall  be  cold,  I  know, 
As  is  the  eternal  moon-lit  snow 
Of  the  high  Alps,  to  which  I  go : 
But  ah,  not  yet !  not  yet ! 

Vain  is  the  agony  of  grief. 
'Tis  true,  indeed,  an  iron  knot 
Ties  straitly  up  from  mine  thy  lot, 
And  were  it  snapt  —  thou  lov'st  me  not ! 
But  is  despair  relief  ? 

Awhile  let  me  with  thought  have  done  ; 
And  as  this  brimm'd  un wrinkled  Rhine 
And  that  far  purple  mountain  line 
Lie  sweetly  in  the  look  divine 
Of  the  slow  sinking  sun ; 

So  let  me  lie,  and  calm  as  they 
Let  beam  upon  my  inward  view 
Those  eyes  of  deep,  soft,  lucent  hue  — 
Eyes  too  expressive  to  be  blue, 
Too  lovely  to  be  grey. 


FADED  LEAVES.  281 

Ah  Quiet,  all  things  feel  thy  balm  ! 
Those  blue  hills  too,  this  river's  flow. 
Were  restless  once,  but  long  ago. 
Tam'd  is  their  turbulent  youthful  glow : 
Their  joy  is  in  their  calm. 


18 


282  FADED    LEAVES. 


V. 

LONGING. 


Come  to  me  in  my  dreams,  and  then 
By  day  I  shall  be  well  again. 
For  then  the  night  will  more  than  pay 
The  hopeless  longing  of  the  day. 

Come,  as  thou  cam'st  a  thousand  times, 
A  messenger  from  radiant  climes, 
And  smile  on  thy  new  world,  and  be 
As  kind  to  others  as  to  me. 

Or,  as  thou  never  cam'st  in  sooth. 
Come  now,  and  let  me  dream  it  truth. 
And  part  my  hair,  and  kiss  my  brow, 
And  say  —  My  love  !  why  suffer  est  thou  7 

Come  to  me  in  my  dreams,  and  then 
By  day  I  shall  be  well  again. 
For  then  the  night  will  more  than  pay 
The  hopeless  longing  of  the  day. 


SELF-DECEPTION. 


Say,  what  blinds  us,  that  we  claim  the  glory 
Of  possessing  powers  not  our  share  ?  — 
Since  man  woke  on  earth,  he  knows  his  story, 
But,  before  we  woke  on  earth,  we  were. 

Long,  long  since,  undower'd  yet,  our  spirit 
Roam'd,  ere  birth,  the  treasuries  of  God  ; 
Saw  the  gifts,  the  powers  it  might  inherit ; 
Ask'd  an  outfit  for  its  earthly  road. 

Then,  as  now,  this  tremulous,  eager  Being 
Strain'd,  and  long'd,  and  grasp'd  each  gift  it  saw. 
Then,  as  now,  a  Power  beyond  our  seeing 
Stav'd  us  back,  and  gave  our  choice  the  law. 

Ah,  whose  hand  that  day  through  heaven  guided 
Man's  blank  spirit,  since  it  was  not  we  ? 
Ah,  who  sway'd  our  choice,  and  who  decided 
What  our  gifts,  and  what  our  wants  should  be  ? 


284  SELF-DECEPTION. 

For,  alas  !  he  left  us  each  retaining 
Shreds  of  gifts  which  he  refus'd  in  full. 
Still  these  waste  us  with  their  hopeless  straining  ■ 
Still  the  attempt  to  use  them  proves  them  null. 

And  on  earth  we  wander,  groping,  reeling ; 
Powers  stir  in  us,  stir  and  disappear. 
Ah,  and  he,  who  placed  our  master-feeling, 
Fail'd  to  place  our  master-feeling  clear. 

"We  but  dream  we  have  our  wish'd-for  powers. 
Ends  we  seek  we  never  shall  attain. 
Ah,  some  power  exists  there,  which  is  ours  ? 
Some  end  is  there,  we  indeed  may  gain  ? 


EXCUSE 


I  TOO  have  suffer'd  :  yet  I  know 
She  is  not  cold,  though  she  seems  so : 
She  is  not  cold,  she  is  not  light ; 
But  our  ignoble  souls  lack  might. 

She  smiles  and  smiles,  and  will  not  sigh, 
While  we  for  hopeless  passion  die ; 
Yet  she  could  love,  those  eyes  declare. 
Were  but  men  nobler  than  they  are. 

Eagerly  once  her  gracious  ken 
Was  turn'd  upon  the  sons  of  men. 
But  light  the  serious  visage  grew  — 
She  look'd,  and  smiled,  and  saw  them  through. 

Our  petty  souls,  our  strutting  wits, 
Our  labor' d  puny  passion-fits  — 
Ah,  may  she  scorn  them  still,  till  we 
Scorn  them  as  bitterly  as  she  ! 


286  EXCUSE. 

Yet  oh,  that  Fate  would  let  her  see 
One  of  some  worthier  race  than  we ; 
One  for  whose  sake  she  once  might  prove 
How  deeply  she  who  scorns  can  love. 

His  eyes  be  like  the  starry  lights  — 
His  voice  like  sounds  of  summer  nights  — 
In  all  his  lovely  mien  let  pierce 
The  magic  of  the  universe. 

And  she  to  him  will  reach  her  hand, 
And  gazing  in  his  eyes  will  stand. 
And  know  her  friend,  and  weep  for  glee. 
And  cry —  Long,  long  I've  look'd  for  thee.  — 

Then  will  she  weep  —  with  smiles,  till  then, 
Coldly  she  mocks  the  sons  of  men. 
Till  then  her  lovely  eyes  maintain 
Their  gay,  unwavering,  deep  disdain. 


INDIFFERENCE. 


I  MUST  not  say  that  thou  wert  true, 
Yet  let  me  say  that  thou  wert  fair. 
And  they  that  lovely  face  who  view, 
They  will  not  ask  if  truth  be  there. 

Truth  —  what  is  truth  ?     Two  bleeding  hearts 
Wounded  by  men,  by  Fortune  tried, 
Outwearied  with  their  lonely  parts. 
Vow  to  beat  henceforth  side  by  side. 

The  world  to  them  was  stern  and  drear  ; 
Their  lot  was  but  to  weep  and  moan. 
Ah,  let  them  keep  their  faith  sincere, 
For  neither  could  subsist  alone  ! 

But  souls  whom  some  benignant  breath 
Has  charm'd  at  birth  from  gloom  and  care. 
These  ask  no  love  —  these  plight  no  faith. 
For  they  are  happy  as  they  are. 


288  INDIFFEBENCE. 

The  world  to  them  may  homage  make, 
And  garlands  for  their  forehead  weave. 
And  what  the  world  can  give,  they  take  : 
But  they  bring  more  than  they  receive. 

They  smile  upon  the  world :  their  ears 
To  one  demand  alone  are  coy. 
They  will  not  give  us  love  and  tears  — 
They  bring  us  light,  and  warmth,  and  joy. 

It  was  not  love  that  heav'd  thy  breast, 
Fair  child  !  it  was  the  bliss  within. 
Adieu !  and  say  that  one,  at  least. 
Was  just  to  what  he  did  not  win. 


RESIGNATION 


TO     F  ATJSTA. 


To  die  he  given  us,  or  attain  ! 
Fierce  work  it  were,  to  do  again. 
So  pilgrims,  bound  for  Mecca,  pray'd 
At  burning  noon  :  so  warriors  said, 
Scarf'd  with,  the  cross,  who  watch'd  the  miles 
Of  dust  that  wreath'd  their  struggling  files 
Down  Lydian  mountains  :   so,  when  snows 
Round  Alpine  summits  eddying  rose, 
The  Goth,  bound  Rome- wards  :   so  the  Hun, 
Crouch'd  on  his  saddle,  when  the  sun 
Went  lurid  down  o'er  flooded  plains 
Through  which  the  groaning  Danube  strains 
To  the  drear  Euxine  :   so  pray  all. 
Whom  labors,  self-ordain' d,  enthrall ; 
Because  they  to  themselves  propose 
On  this  side  the  all-common  close 
A  goal  which,  gain'd,  may  give  repose. 


290       *  ^         DESIGNATION. 

So  pray  they :  and  to  stand  again 

Where  they  stood  once,  to  them  were  pain  ; 

Pain  to  thread  hack  and  to  renew 

Past  straits,  and  currents  long-steer'd  through. 

But  milder  natures,  and  more  free  ; 
"Whom  an  unblam'd  serenity 
Hath  freed  from  passions,  and  the  state 
Of  struggle  these  necessitate  ; 
Whom  schooling  of  the  stubborn  mind 
Hath  made,  or  birth  hath  found,  resign'd ; 
These  mourn  not,  that  their  goings  pay 
Obedience  to  the  passing  day : 
These  claim  not  every  laughing  Hour 
For  handmaid  to  their  striding  power ; 
Each  in  her  turn,  with  torch  uprear'd. 
To  await  their  march :  and  when  appear'd, 
Through  the  cold  gloom,  with  measured  race, 
To  usher  for  a  destin'd  space, 
(Her  own  sweet  errands  all  foregone) 
The  too  imperious  Traveller  on. 
These,  Fausta,  ask  not  this  :  nor  thou, 
Time's  chafing  prisoner,  ask  it  now. 

We  left,  just  ten  years  since,  you  say. 
That  wayside  inn  we  left  to-day : 
Our  jovial  host,  as  forth  we  fare, 
Shouts  greeting  from  his  easy  chair ; 


KESIGNATION. 

High  on  a  bank  our  leader  stands, 

Reviews  and  ranks  his  motley  bands  ; 

Makes  clear  our  goal  to  every  eye, 

The  valley's  western  boundary. 

A  gate  swings  to  :   our  tide  hath  flow'd 

Already  from  the  silent  road. 

The  valley  pastures  one  by  one, 

Are  threaded,  quiet  in  the  sun : 

And  now  beyond  the  rude  stone  bridge 

Slopes  gracious  up  the  western  ridge. 

Its  woody  border,  and  the  last 

Of  its  dark  upland  farms  is  past ; 

Cool  farms,  with  open-lying  stores, 

Under  their  burnish'd  sycamores  : 

All  past :  and  through  the  trees  we  glide 

Emerging  on  the  green  hill-side. 

There  climbing  hangs,  a  far-seen  sign, 

Our  wavering,  many-color'd  line  ; 

There  winds,  upstreaming  slowly  still 

Over  the  summit  of  the  hill. 

And  now,  in  front,  behold  outspread 

Those  upper  regions  we  must  tread  ; 

Mild  hollows,  and  clear  heathy  swells, 

The  cheerful  silence  of  the  fells. 

Some  two  hours'  march,  Avith  serious  air, 

Through  the  deep  noontide  heats  we  fare : 

The  red-grouse,  springing  at  our  sound, 

Skims,  now  and  then,  the  shining  ground ; 

No  life,  save  his  and  ours,  intrudes 

Upon  these  breathless  solitudes. 


291 


2^2  RESIGNATION. 

O  joy  !  again  the  farms  appear  ; 

Cool  shade  is  there,  and  rustic  cheer : 

There  springs  the  brook  will  guide  us  down, 

Bright  comrade,  to  the  noisy  town. 

Lingering,  we  follow  down:  we  gain 

The  town,  the  highway,  and  the  plain, 

And  many  a  mile  of  dusty  way, 

Parch' d  and  road- worn,  we  made  that  day  ; 

But,  Fausta,  I  remember  well 

That,  as  the  balmy  darkness  fell, 

We  bath'd  our  hands,  with  speechless  glee. 

That  night,  in  the  wide-glimmering  Sea. 

Once  more  we  tread  this  self-same  road, 
Fausta,  which  ten  years  since  we  trod : 
Alone  we  tread  it,  you  and  I ; 
Ghosts  of  that  boisterous  company. 
Here,  where  the  brook  shines,  near  its  head. 
In  its  clear,  shallow,  turf-fring'd  bed  ; 
Here,  whence  the  eye  first  sees,  far  down, 
Capp'd  with  faint  smoke,  the  noisy  town ; 
Here  sit  we,  and  again  unroll, 
Though  slowly,  the  familiar  whole. 
The  solemn  wastes  of  heathy  hill 
Sleep  in  the  July  sunshine  still  : 
The  self-same  shadows  now,  as  then, 
Play  through  this  grassy  upland  glen  : 
The  loose  dark  stones  on  the  green  way 
Lie  strewn,  it  seems,  where  then  they  lay : 


KESIGNATIOIS^.  303 

On  tliis  mild  bank  above  the  stream, 
(You  crush  them)  the  blue  gentians  gleam. 
Still  this  wild  brook,  the  rushes  cool. 
The  sailing  foam,  the  shining  pool.  — 
These  are  not  chang'd ;  and  we,  you  say, 
Are  scarce  more  chang'd,  in  truth,  than  they. 

The  Gipsies,  whom  we  met  below. 
They  too  have  long  roam'd  to  and  fro. 
They  ramble,  leaving,  where  they  pass. 
Their  fragments  on  the  cumber'd  grass. 
And  often  to  some  kindly  place 
Chance  guides  the  migratory  race 
Where,  though  long  wanderings  intervene, 
They  recognize  a  former  scene. 
The  dingy  tents  are  pitch' d :  the  fires 
Give  to  the  wind  their  wavering  spires ; 
In  dark  knots  crouch  round  the  wild  flame 
Their  children,  as  when  first  they  came  ; 
They  see  their  shackled  beasts  again 
Move,  browsing,  up  the  gray-wall'd  lane. 
Signs  are  not  wanting,  which  might  raise 
The  ghosts  in  them  of  former  days  : 
Signs  are  not  wanting,  if  they  would  ; 
Suggestions  to  disquietude. 
For  them,  for  all.  Time's  busy  touch, 
While  it  mends  little,  troubles  much  : 
Their  joints  grow  stiffer;  but  the  year 
Runs  his  old  round  of  dubious  cheer : 


294  KESIGIs^ATION. 

Chilly  they  grow ;  yet  winds  in  March 
Still,  sharp  as  ever,  freeze  and  parch : 
They  must  live  still ;  and  yet,  God  knows. 
Crowded  and  keen  the  country  grows  : 
It  seems  as  if,  in  their  decay. 
The  Law  grew  stronger  every  day. 
So  might  they  reason ;  so  compare, 
Fausta,  times  past  with  times  that  are. 
But  no  :  —  they  rubb'd  through  yesterday 
In  their  hereditary  way  ; 
And  they  will  rub  through,  if  they  can, 
To-morrow  on  the  self-same  plan ; 
Till  death  arrives  to  supersede, 
For  them,  vicissitude  and  need. 

The  Poet,  to  whose  mighty  heart 
Heaven  doth  a  quicker  pulse  impart. 
Subdues  that  energy  to  scan 
Not  his  own  course  but  that  of  Man. 
Though  he  move  mountains  ;  though  his  day 
Be  pass'd  on  the  proud  heights  of  sway ; 
Though  he  hath  loos' d  a  thousand  chains  ; 
Though  he  hath  borne  immortal  pains ; 
Action  and  suffering  though  he  know ; 
—  He  hath  not  liv'd,  if  he  lives  so. 
He  sees,  in  some  grcat-historied  land, 
A  ruler  of  the  people  stand  ; 
Sees  his  strong  thought  in  fiery  flood 
Roll  through  the  heaving  multitude ; 


KESIGXATIOX.  295 

Exults  :  yet  for  no  moment's  space 

Envies  the  all-regarded  place. 

Beautiful  eyes  meet  his  ;  and  he 

Bears  to  admire  uncravingly  : 

They  pass  ;  he,  mingled  with  the  crowd, 

Is  in  their  far-off  triumphs  proud. 

From  some  high  station  he  looks  down, 

At  sunset  on  a  populous  town  ; 

Surveys  each  happy  group  that  fleets, 

Toil  ended,  through  the  shining  streets. 

Each  with  some  errand  of  its  own ;  — 

And  does  not  say,  I  am  alone. 

He  sees  the  gentle  stir  of  birth 

When  Morning  purifies  the  earth  : 

He  leans  upon  a  gate,  and  sees 

The  pastures  and  the  quiet  trees. 

Low  woody  hill,  with  gracious  hound. 

Folds  the  still  valley  almost  round  ; 

The  cuckoo,  loud  on  some  high  lawn, 

Is  answer' d  from  the  depth  of  dawn  ; 

In  the  hedge  straggling  to  the  stream, 

Pale,  dew-drench'd,  half-shut  roses  gleam  : 

But  where  the  further  side  slopes  down 

He  sees  the  drowsy  new-wak'd  clown 

In  his  white  quaint-embroider'd  frock 

Make,  whistling,  towards  his  mist-wreath'd  flock  ; 

Slowly  behind  the  heavy  tread. 

The  wet  flower'd  grass  heaves  up  its  head.  — 

Lean'd  on  his  gate,  he  gazes  :  tears 


296  RESIGNATION. 

Are  in  his  eyes,  and  in  his  ears 
The  murmur  of  a  thousand  yeaA  : 
Before  him  he  sees  Life  unroll, 
A  placid  and  continuous  whole  ; 
That  general  Life,  which  does  not  cease, 
Whose  secret  is  not  joy,  but  peace  ; 
That  Life,  whose  dumb  wish  is  not  miss'd 
If  birth  proceeds,  if  things  subsist : 
The  Life  of  plants,  and  stones,  and  rain : 
The  Life  he  craves  ;  if  not  in  vain 
Fate  gave,  what  Chance  shall  not  control, 
His  sad  lucidity  of  soul. 

You  listen  :  —  but  that  wandering  smile, 
Fausta,  betrays  you  cold  the  while. 
Your  eyes  pursue  the  bells  of  foam 
Wash'd,  eddying,  from  this  bank,  their  home. 
Those  Gipsies,  so  your  thoughts  I  scan. 
Are  less,  the  Poet  more,  than  man. 
They  feel  not,  though  they  move  and  see  : 
Deeply  the  Poet  feels  ;  but  he 
Breathes,  when  he  will,  immortal  air. 
Where  Orpheus  and  where  Homer  are. 
In  the  day^s  life,  whose  iron  round 
Hems  us  all  in,  he  is  not  bound. 
He  escapes  thence,  but  we  abide. 
Not  deep  the  Poet  sees,  but  wide. 

The  World  in  which  we  live  and  move 
Outlasts  aversion,  outlasts  love  : 


iiesig.:n'ation'. 

Outlasts  each  effort,  interest,  hope, 

Remorse,  grief,  joy  :  — and  were  the  scope 

Of  these  affections  wider  made, 

Man  still  would  see,  and  see  dismay'd, 

Beyond  his  passion's  widest  range 

Far  regions  of  eternal  change. 

Nay,  and  since  death,  which  wipes  out  man. 

Finds  him  with  many  an  unsolv'd  plan, 

With  much  unknown,  and  much  untried, 

Wonder  not  dead,  and  thirst  not  dried. 

Still  gazing  on  the  ever  full 

Eternal  mundane  spectacle ; 

This  World  in  which  we  draw  our  breath, 

In  some  sense,  Fausta,  outlasts  death. 

Blame  thou  not  therefore  him,  who  dares 
Judge  vain  beforehand  human  cares. 
AVhose  natural  insight  can  discern 
What  through  experience  others  learn. 
Who  needs  not  love  and  power,  to  know 
Love  transient,  power  an  unreal  show. 
Who  treads  at  ease  life's  uncheer'd  ways  :  — 
Him  blame  not,  Fausta,  rather  praise. 
Rather  thyself  for  some  aim  pray 
Nobler  than  this  —  to  fill  the  day. 
Rather,  that  heart,  which  burns  in  thee. 
Ask,  not  to  amuse,  but  to  set  free. 
Be  passionate  hopes  not  ill  resigned 
For  quiet,  and  a  fearless  mind. 
19 


297 


298  KESIGXATION. 

And  tliougli  Fate  grudge  to  thee  and  me 
The  Poet's  rapt  security, 
Yet  they,  believe  me,  who  await 
No  gifts  from  Chance,  have  conquer'd  Fate. 
They,  winning  room  to  see  and  hear, 
And  to  men's  business  not  too  near, 
Through  clouds  of  individual  strife 
Draw  homewards  to  the  general  Life. 
Like  leaves  by  suns  not  yet  uncurl' d: 
To  the  wise,  foolish  ;  to  the  world. 
Weak  :  yet  not  weak,  I  might  reply, 
Not  foolish,  Fausta,  in  His  eye. 
To  whom  each  moment  in  its  race. 
Crowd  as  we  will  its  neutral  space. 
Is  but  a  quiet  watershed 
Whence,  equally,  the  Seas  of  Life  and  Death  are  fed. 

Enough,  we  live  :  — and  if  a  life. 
With  large  results  so  little  rife, 
Though  bearable,  seem  hardly  worth 
This  pomp  of  worlds,  this  pain  of  birth  ; 
Yet,  Fausta,  the  mute  turf  we  tread. 
The  solemn  hills  around  us  sp)read. 
This  stream  that  falls  incessantly. 
The  strange-scrawl'd  rocks,  the  lonely  sky. 
If  I  might  lend  their  life  a  voice. 
Seem  to  bear  rather  than  rejoice. 
And  even  could  the  intemperate  prayer 
Man  iterates,  while  these  forbear, 


HESIGNATIOX.  299 


For  movement,  for  an  ampler  sphere, 
Pierce  Fate's  impenetrable  ear  ; 
Not  milder  is  the  general  lot 
Because  our  spirits  have  forgot. 
In  action's  dizzying  eddy  whirl' d, 
The  something  that  infects  the  world. 


DESPONDENCY 


The  thoughts  that  rain  their  steady  glow 
Like  stars  on  life's  cold  sea, 
Which  others  know,  or  say  they  know  — 
They  never  shone  for  me. 

Thoughts  light,  like  gleams,  my  spirit's  sky, 
But  they  will  not  remain. 
They  light  me  once,  they  hurry  by. 
And  never  come  again. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  AND  THE  STARS. 


And  you,  ye  Stars  ! 
Who  slowly  begin  to  marshal, 
As  of  old,  in  the  fields  of  heaven, 
Your  distant,  melancholy  lines  — 

Have  you,  too,  surviv'd  yourselves  ? 
Are  you,  too,  what  I  fear  to  become  ? 

You  too  once  liv'd  — 
You  too  mov'd  joyfully 
Among  august  companions 
In  an  older  world,  peopled  by  Gods, 
In  a  mightier  order, 
The  radiant,  rejoicing,  intelligent  Sons  of  Heaven ! 

But  now,  you  kindle 
Your  lonely,  cold- shining  lights. 
Unwilling  lingerers 
In  the  heavenly  wilderness, 
For  a  younger,  ignoble  world. 
And  renew,  by  necessity, 


302  THE    PHILOSOPHER   AND    THE    STARS. 

Night  after  niglit  your  courses, 
In  echoing  unnear'd  silence, 
Above  a  race  you  know  not. 
Uncaring  and  undelighted, 
Without  friend  and  without  home. 
Weary  like  us,  though  not 
Weary  with  our  weariness. 


DESIRE. 


Tiior,  who  dost  dwell  alone  — 
Thou,  who  dost  know  thine  own  — 
Thou,  to  whom  all  are  known 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave  — 

Save,  oh,  save. 
From  the  world's  temptations, 
From  tribulations  ; 
From  that  fierce  anguish 
Wherein  we  languish  ; 
From  that  torpor  deep 
Wherein  we  lie  asleep. 
Heavy  as  death,  cold  as  the  grave ; 
Save,  oh,  save. 
When  the  Soul,  growing  clearer, 

Sees  God  no  nearer : 
When  the  Soul,  mounting  higher. 

To  God  comes  no  nigher : 


304  DESIEE. 

But  the  arch-fiend  Pride 
Mounts  at  her  side, 
Foiling  her  high  emprize, 
Sealing  her  eagle  eyes, 
And,  when  she  fain  would  soar, 
Makes  idols  to  adore  ; 
Changing  the  pure  emotion 
Of  her  high  devotion 
To  a  skin-deep  sense 
Of  her  own  eloquence  : 
Strong  to  deceive,  strong  to  enslave  — 
Save,  oh,  save. 

From  the  ingrain' d  fashion 
Of  this  earthly  nature 
That  mars  thy  creature. 
From  grief,  that  is  but  passion. 
From  mirth  that  is  but  feigning ; 
From  tears,  that  bring  no  healing ; 

From  wild  and  weak  complaining  ; 

Thine  old  strength  revealing, 
Save,  oh,  save. 
From  doubt,  where  all  is  double  : 
Where  wise  men  are  not  strong  : 
Where  comfort  turns  to  trouble  : 
Where  just  men  suffer  wrong. 
Where  sorrow  treads  on  joy  : 
Where  sweet  things  soonest  cloy  : 


DESIRE.  305 

Where  faiths  are  built  on  dust : 
Where  Love  is  half  mistrust, 
Hungry,  and  barren,  and  sharp  as  the  sea  : 
Oh,  set  us  free. 
O  let  the  false  dream  fly 
Where  our  sick  souls  do  lie 

Tossing  continually. 
O  where  thy  voice  doth  come 

Let  all  doubts  be  dumb  : 

Let  all  words  be  mild  : 

All  strifes  be  reconcil'd  : 

All  pains  beguil'd. 
Light  bring  no  blindness  : 
Love  no  unkindness ; 
Knowledge  no  ruin  ; 
Fear  no  undoing. 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave. 
Save,  oh,  save. 


TO  A  GIPSY  CHILD  BY  THE  SEA-SHORE, 

DOUGLAS,    ISLE     OP     MAN. 

Who  taught  this  pleading  to  unpractis'd  eyes  ? 
Who  hid  such  import  in  an  infant's  gloom  ? 
Who  lent  thee,  child,  this  meditative  guise  ? 
What  clouds  thy  forehead,  and  fore-dates  thy  doom  ? 

Lo  !  sails  that  gleam  a  moment  and  are  gone  ; 
The  swinging  waters,  and  the  cluster' d  pier. 
Not  idly  Earth  and  Ocean  labor  on, 
Nor  idly  do  these  sea-birds  hover  near. 

But  thou,  whom  superfluity  of  joy 
Wafts  not  from  thine  own  thoughts,  nor  longings  vain, 
Nor  weariness,  the  full-fed  soul's  annoy ; 
Remaining  in  thy  hunger  and  thy  pain : 

Thou,  drugging  pain  by  patience  ;  half  averse 
From  thine  own  mother's  breast,  that  knows  not  thee  ; 
With  eyes  that  sought  thine  eyes  thou  didst  converse. 
And  that  soul-searching  vision  fell  on  me. 


TO    A    GIPSY    CHILD    BY   THE    SEA-SHORE.  307 

Glooms  that  go  deep  as  thine  I  have  not  known  : 
Moods  of  fantastic  sadness,  nothing  worth. 
Thy  sorrow  and  thy  calmness  are  thine  own : 
Glooms  that  enhance  and  glorify  this  earth. 

What  mood  wears  like  complexion  to  thy  woe  ?  -^ 
His,  who  in  mountain  glens,  at  noon  of  day. 
Sits  rapt,  and  hears  the  battle  break  below  ?  — 
Ah  !  thine  was  not  the  shelter,  but  the  fray. 

What  exile's,  changing  bitter  thoughts  with  glad  ? 
What  seraph's,  in  some  alien  planet  born  ?  — 
No  exile's  dream  was  ever  half  so  sad, 
Nor  any  angel's  sorrow  so  forlorn. 

Is  the  calm  thine  of  stoic  souls,  who  weigh 
Life  well,  and  find  it  wanting,  nor  deplore  : 
But  in  disdainful  silence  turn  away. 
Stand  mute,  self-centred,  stern,  and  dream  no  more  ? 

Or  do  I  wait,  to  hear  some  gray-hair' d  king 
Unravel  all  his  many-color' d  lore  : 
Whose  mind  hath  known  all  arts  of  governing, 
Mus'd  much,  lov'd  life  a  little,  loath' d  it  more  ? 

Down  the  pale  cheek  long  lines  of  shadow  slope. 
Which  years,  and  curious  thought,  and  suffering  give  — 
Thou  hast  foreknown  the  vanity  of  hope, 
Foreseen  thy  harvest  —  yet  proceed' st  to  live. 


308  TO    A    GIPSY    CHILD    BY    THE    SEA-SHORE. 

O  meek  anticipant  of  that  sure  pain 
Whose  sureness  gray-hair' d  scholars  hardly  learn ! 
What  wonder  shall  time  breed,  to  swell  thy  strain  ? 
What  heavens,  what  earth,  what  suns  shalt  thou  discern  ? 

Ere  the  long  night,  whose  stillness  brooks  no  star, 
Match  that  funereal  aspect  with  her  pall, 
I  think,  thou  wilt  have  fathom' d  life  too  far, 
Have  known  too  much  —  or  else  forgotten  all. 

The  Guide  of  our  dark  steps  a  triple  veil 
Betwixt  our  senses  and  our  sorrow  keeps  : 
Hath  sown  with  cloudless  passages  the  tale 
Of  grief,  and  eas'd  us  with  a  thousand  sleeps. 

Ah  !  not  the  nectarous  poppy  lovers  use, 
Not  daily  labor's  dull,  Lethaean  spring. 
Oblivion  in  lost  angels  can  infuse 
Of  the  soil'd  glory,  and  the  trailing  wing  ; 

And  though  thou  glean,  what  strenuous  gleaners  may, 
In  the  throng'd  fields  where  winning  comes  by  strife ; 
And  though  the  just  sun  gild,  as  all  men  pray, 
Some  reaches  of  thy  storm-vext  stream  of  life ; 

Though  that  blank  sunshine  blind  thee :  though  the 
cloud 
That  sever' d  the  world's  march  and  thine,  is  gone  : 
Though  ease  dulls  grace,  and  Wisdom  be  too  proud 
To  halve  a  lodging  that  was  all  her  own : 


TO    A    GIPSY    CHILD    BY    THE    SEA-SHORE.  309 

Once,  ere  the  day  decline,  thou  shalt  discern, 
Oh  once,  ere  night,  in  thy  success,  thy  chain. 
Ere  the  long  evening  close,  thou  shalt  return, 
And  wear  this  majesty  of  grief  again. 


OBERMANN 


In  front  the  awful  Alpine  track 
Crawls  up  its  rocky  stair ; 
The  autumn  storm-winds  drive  the  rack 
Close  o'er  it,  in  the  air. 

Behind  are  the  abandon' d  baths 
Mute  in  their  meadows  lone ; 
The  leaves  are  on  the  valley  paths ; 
The  mists  are  on  the  Ehone  — 

The  white  mists  rolling  like  a  sea. 
I  hear  the  torrents  roar. 
—  Yes,  Obermann,  all  speaks  of  thee ! 
I  feel  thee  near  once  more. 

I  turn  thy  leaves  :  I  feel  their  breath 
Once  more  upon  me  roll ; 
That  air  of  languor,  cold,  and  death. 
Which  brooded  o'er  thy  soul. 


OBERMANN.  311 

Fly  hence,  poor  Wretch,  whoe'er  thou  art, 
Condemn'd  to  cast  about, 
All  shipwreck  in  thy  own  weak  heart, 
For  comfort  from  without : 

A  fever  in  these  pages  burns 
Beneath  the  calm  they  feign ; 
A  wounded  human  spirit  turns 
Here,  on  its  bed  of  pain. 

Yes,  though  the  virgin  mountain  air 
Fresh  through  these  pages  blows, 
Though  to  these  leaves  the  glaciers  spare 
The  soul  of  their  white  snows. 

Though  here  a  mountain  murmur  swells 
Of  many  a  dark-bough'd  pine. 
Though,  as  you  read,  you  hear  the  bells 
Of  the  high-pasturing  kine  — 

Yet,  through  the  hum  of  torrent  lone, 
And  brooding  mountain  bee, 
There  sobs  I  know  not  what  ground  tone 
Of  human  agony. 

Is  it  for  this,  because  the  sound 
Is  fraught  too  deep  with  pain, 
That,  Obermann  !  the  world  around 
So  little  loves  thy  strain  ? 


312  OBEEMANX. 

Some  secrets  may  the  poet  tell, 
For  the  world  loves  new  ways. 
To  tell  too  deep  ones  is  not  well ; 
It  knows  not  what  he  says. 

Yet  of  the  spirits  who  have  reign' d 
In  this  our  troubled  day, 
I  know  but  two,  who  have  attain'd 
Save  thee,  to  see  their  way. 

By  England's  lakes,  in  gray  old  age, 
His  quiet  home  one  keeps  ;  •'* 
And  one,  the  strong,  much-toiling  Sage, 
In  German  Weimar  sleeps. 

But  Wordsworth's  eyes  avert  their  ken. 
From  half  of  human  fate  ; 
And  Goethe's  course  few  sons  of  men 
May  think  to  emulate. 

For  he  pursued  a  lonely  road. 
His  eyes  on  Nature's  plan ; 
Neither  made  man  too  much  a  God, 
Nor  God  too  much  a  man. 

Strong  was  he,  with  a  spirit  free 
From  mists,  and  sane,  and  clear  ; 
Clearer,  how  much  !  than  ours  :   yet  we 
Have  a  worse  course  to  steer. 

*  Written  in  November,  1849. 


OBERMANN.  313 

For  though  his  manhood  bore  the  blast 
Of  Europe's  stormiest  time, 
Yet  in  a  tranquil  world  was  pass'd 
His  tenderer  youthful  prime. 

But  we,  brought  forth  and  rear'd  in  hours 
Of  change,  alarm,  surprise  — 
What  shelter  to  grow  ripe  is  ours  ? 
What  leisure  to  grow  wise  ? 

Like  children  bathing  on  the  shore. 
Buried  a  wave  beneath. 
The  second  wave  succeeds,  before 
We  have  had  time  to  breathe. 

Too  fast  we  live,  too  much  are  tried, 
Too  harass'd,  to  attain 
Wordsworth's  sweet  calm,  or  Goethe's  wide 
And  luminous  view  to  gain. 

And  then  we  turn,  thou  sadder  Sage  ! 
To  thee  :  we  feel  thy  spell. 
The  hopeless  tangle  of  our  age  — 
Thou  too  hast  scann'd  it  well. 

Immoveable  thou  sittest ;  still 
As  death  ;  compos' d  to  bear. 
Thy  head  is  clear,  thy  feeling  chill  — 
And  icy  thy  despair. 

20 


314  OBEKMAI^N. 

Yes,  as  the  Son  of  Thetis  said, 
One  hears  thee  saying  now  — 
Greater  hyfar  than  thou  are  dead  : 
Strive  not :  die  also  thou.  —  • 

4h  !  Two  desires  toss  about 
The  poet's  feverish  blood. 
One  drives  him  to  the  world  without, 
And  one  to  solitude. 

The  glow,  he  cries,  the  thrill  of  life  — 
Where,  where  do  these  abound  7  — 
Not  in  the  world,  not  in  the  strife 
Of  men,  shall  they  be  found. 

He  who  hath  watch' d,  not  shar'd,  the  strife, 
Knows  how  the  day  hath  gone  ; 
He  only  lives  with  the  world's  life 
Who  hath  renounc'd  his  own. 

To  thee  we  come,  then.     Clouds  are  roU'd 
Where  thou,  0  Seer,  art  set ; 
Thy  realm  of  thought  is  drear  and  cold  — 
The  world  is  colder  yet  ! 

And  thou  hast  pleasures  too  to  share 
With  those  who  come  to  thee  : 
Balms  floating  on  thy  mountain  air, 
And  healing  sights  to  see. 


OBERMANN'.  315 

How  often,  where  the  slopes  are  green 
On  Jaman,  hast  thou  sate 
By  some  high  chalet  door,  and  seen 
The  summer  day  grow  late. 

And  darkness  steal  o'er  the  wet  grass 
With  the  pale  crocus  starr'd, 
And  reach  that  glimmering  sheet  of  glass 
Beneath  the  piny  sward, 

Lake  Leman's  waters,  far  below : 
And  watch' d  the  rosy  light 
Fade  from  the  distant  peaks  of  snow  : 
And  on  the  air  of  night 

Heard  accents  of  the  eternal  tongue 
Through  the  pine  branches  play  : 
Listen' d,  and  felt  thyself  grow  young  ; 
Listen' d,  and  wept  —  Away  ! 

Away  the  dreams  that  but  deceive  ! 
And  thou,  sad  Guide,  adieu  ! 
^       I  go  ;  Fate  drives  me  :  but  I  leave 
Half  of  my  life  with  you. 

We,  in  some  unknown  Power's  employ, 
Move  on  a  rigorous  line  : 
Can  neither,  when  we  will,  enjoy ; 
Nor,  when  we  will,  resign. 


316  OBEKMANN. 

I  in  the  world  must  live  :  —  but  thou, 
Thou  melancholy  Shade  ! 
Wilt  not,  if  thou  can'st  see  me  now, 
Condemn  me,  nor  upbraid. 

For  thou  art  gone  away  from  earth, 
And  place  with  those  dost  claim. 
The  Children  of  the  Second  Birth 
Whom  the  world  could  not  tame ; 

And  with  that  small  transfigur'd  Band, 
Whom  many  a  different  way 
Conducted  to  their  common  land, 
Thou  learn'st  to  think  as  they. 

Christian  and  pagan,  king  and  slave. 
Soldier  and  anchorite, 
Distinctions  we  esteem  so  grave, 
Are  nothing  in  their  sight. 

They  do  not  ask,  who  pin'd  unseen, 
Who  was  on  action  hurl'd. 
Whose  one  bond  is  that  all  have  been 
Unspotted  by  the  world. 

There  without  anger  thou  wilt  see 
Him  who  obeys  thy  spell 
No  more,  so  he  but  rest,  like  thee, 
Unsoil'd  :  —  and  so.  Farewell ! 


OBERMANN.  317 

Farewell !  —  Whether  thou  now  liest  near 
That  much-lov'd  inland  sea 
The  ripples  of  whose  blue  waves  cheer 
Vevey  and  Meillerie, 

And  in  that  gracious  region  bland, 
Where  with  clear-rustling  wave 
The  scented  pines  of  Switzerland 
Stand  dark  round  thy  green  grave, 

Between  the  dusty  vineyard  walls 
Issuing  on  that  green  place 
The  early  peasant  still  recalls 
The  pensive  stranger's  face. 

And  stoops  to  clear  thy  moss-grown  date 
Ere  he  plods  on  again  ;  — 
Or  whether,  by  maligner  Fate, 
Among  the  swarms  of  men, 

Where  between  granite  terraces 
The  blue  Seine  rolls  her  wave, 
The  Capital  of  Pleasure  sees 
Thy  hardly-heard-of  grave  — 

Farewell !  Under  the  sky  we  part. 
In  this  stern  Alpine  dell. 
O  unstrung  will !  O  broken  heart ! 
A  last,  a  last  farewell ! 


THE   BURIED    LIFE. 


Light  flows  our  war  of  mocking  words,  and  yet, 
Behold  with  tears  my  eyes  are  wet. 
I  feel  a  nameless  sadness  o'er  me  roll. 

Yes,  yes,  we  know  that  we  can  jest. 
We  know,  we  know  that  we  can  smile ; 
But  there's  a  something  in  this  breast 
To  which  thy  light  words  bring  no  rest, 
And  thy  gay  smiles  no  anodyne. 

Give  me  thy  hand,  and  hush  awhile. 
And  turn  those  limpid  eyes  on  mine, 
And  let  me  read  there,  love,  thy  inmost  soul. 

Alas,  is  even  Love  too  weak 
To  unlock  the  heart,  and  let  it  speak  ? 
Are  even  lovers  powerless  to  reveal 
To  one  another  what  indeed  they  feel  ? 
I  knew  the  mass  of  men  conceal' d 
Their  thoughts,  for  fear  that  if  reveal' d 
They  would  by  other  men  be  met 
With  blank  indifference,  or  with  blame  reprov'd  : 
I  knew  they  liv'd  and  mov'd 


THE    EUHIED    LIFE.  319 

Trick'd  in  disguises,  alien  to  the  rest 

Of  men,  and  alien  to  themselves  —  and  yet 

The  same  heart  beats  in  every  human  breast. 

But  we,  my  love  —  does  a  like  spell  benumb 
Our  hearts  —  our  voices  ?  —  must  we  too  be  dumb  ? 

Ah,  well  for  us,  if  even  we^ 
Even  for  a  moment,  can  get  free 
Our  heart,  and  have  our  lips  unchain' d  : 
For  that  which  seals  them  hath  been  deep  ordain' d. 

Fate,  which  foresaw 
How  frivolous  a  baby  man  would  be. 
By  what  distractions  he  would  be  possess'd. 
How  he  would  pour  himself  in  every  strife, 
And  well-nigh  change  his  own  identity ; 
That  it  might  keep  from  his  capricious  play 
His  genuine  self,  and  force  him  to  obey. 
Even  in  his  own  despite,  his  being's  law. 
Bade  through  the  deep  recesses  of  our  breast 
The  unregarded  River  of  our  Life 
Pursue  with  indiscernible  flow  its  way ; 
And  that  we  should  not  see 
The  buried  stream,  and  seem  to  be 
Eddying  about  in  blind  uncertainty, 
Though  driving  on  with  it  eternally. 

But  often,  in  the  Avorld's  most  crowded  streets. 


320  THE    BURIED    LIFE. 

But  often,  in  the  din  of  strife, 
There  rises  an  unspeakable  desire 
After  the  knowledge  of  our  buried  life, 
A  thirst  to  spend  our  fire  and  restless  fore? 
In  tracking  out  our  true,  original  course ; 
A  longing  to  inquire 
Into  the  mystery  of  this  heart  that  beats 
So  wild,  so  deep  in  us,  to  know 
"Whence  our  thoughts  come  and  where  they  go. 
And  many  a  man  in  his  own  breast  then  delves, 
But  deep  enough,  alas,  none  ever  mines : 
And  we  have  been  on  many  thousand  lines. 
And  we  have  shown  on  each  talent  and  power, 
But  hardly  have  we,  for  one  little  hour. 
Been  on  our  own  line,  have  we  been  ourselves ; 
Hardly  had  skill  to  utter  one  of  all 
The  nameless  feelings  that  course  through  our  breast, 
But  they  course  on  forever  unexpress'd. 
And  long  we  try  in  vain  to  speak  and  act 
Our  hidden  self,  and  what  we  say  and  do 
Is  eloquent,  is  well  —  but  'tis  not  true  : 
And  then  we  will  no  more  be  rack'd 
With  inward  striving,  and  demand 
Of  all  the  thousand  nothings  of  the  hour 
Their  stupefying  power ; 
Ah  yes,  and  they  benumb  us  at  our  call : 
Yet  still,  from  time  to  time,  vague  and  forlorn, 
From  the  soul's  subterranean  depth  upborne 
As  from  an  infinitely  distant  land, 


THE    BUEIED    LIFE.  321 

Come  airs,  and  floating  echoes,  and  convey 
A  melancholy  into  all  our  day. 

Only  —  but  this  is  rare  — 
When  a  beloved  hand  is  laid  in  ours, 
When,  jaded  with  the  rush  and  glare 
Of  the  interminable  hours. 
Our  eyes  can  in  another's  eyes  read  clear, 
When  our  world- deafen' d  ear 
Is  by  the  tones  of  a  lov'd  voice  caress' d,  — 

A  bolt  is  shot  back  somewhere  in  our  breast 
And  a  lost  pulse  of  feeling  stirs  again  : 
The  eye  sinks  inward,  and  the  heart  lies  plain, 
And  what  we  mean,  we  say,  and  what  we  would,  we     / 

know. 
A  man  becomes  aware  of  his  life's  flow, 
And  hears  its  winding  murmur,  and  he  sees 
The  meadows  where  it  glides,  the  sun,  the  breeze* 

And  there  arrives  a  lull  in  the  hot  race 
Wherein  he  doth  forever  chase 
That  flying  and  elusive  shadow,  Rest. 
An  air  of  coolness  plays  upon  his  face, 
And  an  unwonted  calm  pervades  his  breast. 

And  then  he  thinks  he  knows 
The  Hills  where  his  life  rose. 
And  the  Sea  where  it  goes. 


THE  YOUTH  OF  NATURE, 


Rais'd  are  the  dripping  oars  — 
Silent  the  boat :  the  lake. 
Lovely  and  soft  as  a  dream, 
Swims  in  the  sheen  of  the  moon. 
The  mountains  stand  at  its  head 
Clear  in  the  pure  June  night, 
But  the  valleys  are  flooded  with  haze. 
Rydal  and  Fairfield  are  there  ; 
In  the  shadow  Wordsworth  lies  dead. 
So  it  is,  so  it  will  be  for  aye. 

Nature  is  fresh  as  of  old, 
Is  lovely :  a  mortal  is  dead. 

The  spots  which  recall  him  survive. 
For  he  lent  a  new  life  to  these  hills. 
The  Pillar  still  broods  o'er  the  fields 
Which  border  Ennerdale  Lake, 
And  Egremont  sleeps  by  the  sea. 
The  gleam  of  The  Evening  Star 
Twinkles  on  Grasmere  no  more, 


THE    YOTJTH    OF    NATURE.  323 

But  ruin'cl  and  solemn  and  gray 
The  slieepfold  of  Michael  survives. 
And  far  to  the  south,  the  heath 
Still  blows  in  the  Quantock  coombs, 

By  the  favorite  waters  of  Ruth. 
These  survive  :  yet  not  without  pain, 
Pain  and  dejection  to-night, 
■  Can  I  feel  that  their  Poet  is  gone. 

He  grew  old  in  an  age  he  condemn'd. 
He  look'd  on  the  rushing  decay 
Of  the  times  v/hich  had  shelter' d  his  youth. 
Felt  the  dissolving  throes 
Of  a  social  order  he  lov'd. 
Outliv'd  his  brethren,  his  peers. 
And,  like  the  Theban  seer, 

Died  in  his  enemies'  day. 

Cold  bubbled  the  spring  of  Tilphusa, 
Copais  lay  bright  in  the  moon  ; 
Helicon  glass' d  in  the  lake 
Its  firs,  and  afar,  rose  the  peaks 
Of  Parnassus,  snowily  clear  : 
Thebes  was  behind  him  in  flames. 
And  the  clang  of  arms  in  his  ear,  ^ 

When  his  awe-struck  captors  led 
The  Theban  seer  to  the  spring. 

Tiresias  drank  and.  died. 
Nor  did  reviving  Thebes 
See  such  a  prophet  again. 


324  THE    YOUTH    OF    NATURE. 

Well  may  we  mourn,  when  the  head 
Of  a  sacred  poet  lies  low 
In  an  age  which  can  rear  them  no  more. 
The  complaining  millions  of  men 
Darken  in  labor  and  pain  ; 
But  he  was  a  priest  to  us  all 
Of  the  wonder  and  bloom  of  the  world, 
Which  we  saw  with  his  eyes,  and  were  glad* 

He  is  dead,  and  the  fruit-bearing  day 
Of  his  race  is  past  on  the  earth ; 
And  darkness  returns  to  our  eyes. 

For  oh,  is  it  you,  is  it  you. 
Moonlight,  and  shadow,  and  lake. 
And  mountains,  that  fill  us  with  joy, 
Or  the  Poet  who  sings  you  so  well  ? 
Is  it  you,  O  Beauty,  O  Grace, 
O  Charm,  0  Romance,  that  we  feel. 
Or  the  voice  which  reveals  what  you  are  ? 
Are  ye,  like  daylight  and  sun, 
Shar'd  and  rejoic'd  in  by  all  ? 
Or  are  ye  immers'd  in  the  mass 
Of  matter,  and  hard  to  extract. 
Or  sunk  at  the  core  of  the  world 
Too  deep  for  the  most  to  discern  ? 

Like  stars  in  the  deep  of  the  sky. 
Which  arise  on  the  glass  of  the  sage. 
But  are  lost  when  their  watcher  is  gone. 


THE    YOUTH    OF    NATURE.  325 

"  They  are  here  "  —  I  heard,  as  men  heard 
In  Mysian  Ida  the  voice 
Of  the  Mighty  Mother,  or  Crete, 
The  murmur  of  Nature  reply  — 
"  Loveliness,  Magic,  and  Grace, 
They  are  here  —  they  are  set  in  the  world  — 
They  abide  —  and  the  finest  of  souls 
Has  not  been  thrill'd  by  them  all, 
Nor  the  dullest  been  dead  to  them  quite. 
The  poet  who  sings  them  may  die. 
But  they  are  immortal,  and  live. 
For  they  are  the  life  of  the  world. 

Will  ye  not  learn  it,  and  know, 
When  ye  mourn  that  a  poet  is  dead. 
That  the  singer  was  less  than  his  themes, 

Life,  and  Emotion,  and  I  ? 

"  More  than  the  singer  are  these. 
Weak  is  the  tremor  of  pain 
That  thrills  in  his  mournfuUest  chord 
To  that  which  once  ran  through  his  soul. 
Cold  the  elation  of  joy 
In  his  gladdest,  airest  song. 
To  that  which  of  old  in  his  youth 
Fill'd  him  and  made  him  divine. 
Hardly  his  voice  at  its  best 
Gives  us  a  sense  of  the  awe. 
The  vastness,  the  grandeur,  the  gloom 
Of  the  unlit  gulph  of  himself. 


326  THE    YOUTH    OP    NATURE. 

*' Ye  know  not  yourselves  —  and  your  bards, 
The  clearest,  the  best,  who  have  read 
Most  in  themselves,  have  beheld 
Less  than  they  left  unreveal'd. 
Ye  express  not  yourselves  —  can  ye  make 
With  marble,  with  color,  with  word, 
What  charm' d  you  in  others  re-live  ? 
Can  thy  pencil,  O  Artist,  restore 
The  figure,  the  bloom  of  thy  love. 
As  she  was  in  her  morning  of  spring  ? 
Canst  thou  paint  the  ineffable  smile 
Of  her  eyes  as  they  rested  on  thine  ? 
Can  the  image  of  life  have  the  glow, 
The  motion  of  life  itself? 

"  Yourselves  and  your  fellows  ye  know  not  — 
and  me 
The  Mateless,  the  One,  will  ye  know  ? 
Will  ye  scan  me,  and  read  me,  and  tell 
Of  the  thoughts  that  ferment  in  my  breast, 
My  longing,  my  sadness,  my  joy? 
Will  ye  claim  for  your  great  ones  the  gift 
To  have  render'd  the  gleam  of  my  skies, 
To  have  echoed  the  moan  of  my  seas, 
Utter' d  the  voice  of  my  hills  ? 
When  your  great  ones  depart,  will  ye  say  — 
All  things  have  suffered  a  loss  — 
Nature  is  hid  in  their  grave  ? 


THE    YOUTH    OF    NATURE.  327 

"  Race  after  race,  man  after  man, 
Have  dream' d  that  my  secret  was  theirs. 
Have  thought  that  I  liv'd  but  for  them. 
That  they  were  my  glory  and  joy. — 
They  are  dust,  they  are  chang'd,  they  are  gone. — 
I  remain." 


THE    YOUTH    OF    MAN. 

We,  0  Nature,  depart : 
Thou  survivest  us  :  this, 
This,  I  know,  is  the  law. 
Yes,  but  more  than  this, 
Thou  who  seest  us  die 
Seest  us  change  while  we  live  ; 
Seest  our  dreams  one  by  one, 
Seest  our  errors  depart : 

Watchest  us,  Nature,  throughout. 
Mild  and  inscrutably  calm. 

Well  for  us  that  we  change ! 
Well  for  us  that  the  Power 
Which  in  our  morning  prime 
Saw  the  mistakes  of  our  youth, 
Sweet,  and  forgiving,  and  good, 
Sees  the  contrition  of  age  ! 

Behold,  O  Nature,  this  pair  ! 
See  them  to-night  where  they  stand, 
Not  with  the  halo  of  youth 


THE    YOUTH    OF    MAN.  229 

Crowning  their  brows  with  its  light, 

Not  with  the  sunshine  of  hope, 

Not  with  the  rapture  of  spring. 

Which  they  had  of  old,  when  they  stood 

Years  ago  at  my  side 

In  this  self-same  garden,  and  said  ;  — 

"  We  are  young,  and  the  world  is  ours. 

For  man  is  the  king  of  the  world. 

Fools  that  these  mystics  are 

Who  prate  of  Nature !  but  she 

Has  neither  beauty,  nor  warmth, 

Nor  life,  nor  emotion,  nor  power. 

But  Man  has  a  thousand  gifts, 

And  the  generous  dreamer  invests 

The  senseless  world  with  them  all. 

Nature  is  nothing  I  her  charm 
Lives  in  our  eyes  which  can  paint. 
Lives  in  our  hearts  which  can  feel  !  " 

Thou,  O  Nature,  wert  mute. 
Mute  as  of  old :  days  flew, 
Days  and  years  ;  and  Time 
With  the  ceaseless  stroke  of  his  wings 
Brush' d  ofi*  the  bloom  from  their  soul. 
Clouded  and  dim  grew  their  eye  ; 
Languid  their  heart ;  for  Youth 
Quicken' d  its  pulses  no  more. 
Slowly  within  the  walls 
Of  an  ever-narrowing  world 
21 


230  THE    YOUTH    OF    MAN. 

They  droop' d,  they  grew  blind,  they  grew  old. 
Thee  and  their  Youth  in  thee, 
Nature,  they  saw  no  more. 

Murmur  of  living ! 
Stir  of  existence  ! 
Soul  of  the  world ! 
Make,  oh  make  yourselves  felt 
To  the  dying  spirit  of  Youth. 
Come,  like  the  breath  of  the  spring. 
Leave  not  a  human  soul 
To  grow  old  in  darkness  and  pain. 

Only  the  living  can  feel  you : 
But  leave  us  not  while  we  live. 

Here  they  stand  to-night  — 
Here,  where  this  gray  balustrade 
Crowns  the  still  valley  :  behind 
Is  the  castled  house  with  its  woods 
Which  shelter' d  their  childhood,  the  sun 
On  its  ivied  windows  :  a  scent 
From  the  gray-wall'd  gardens,  a  breath 
Of  the  fragrant  stock  and  the  pink. 
Perfumes  the  evening  air. 
Their  children  play  on  the  lawns. 
They  stand  and  listen :  they  hear 
The  children's  shouts,  and,  at  times. 
Faintly,  the  bark  of  a  dog 
From  a  distant  farm  in  the  hills  :  — 


THE    YOTTTH    OF    MAN.  281 

Nothing  besides  :  in  front 

The  wide,  wide  valley  outspreads 

To  the  dim  horizon,  repos'd 

In  the  twilight,  and  bath'd  in  dew. 

Corn-field  and  hamlet  and  copse 
Darkening  fast ;  but  a  light, 
Far  off,  a  glory  of  day, 
Still  plays  on  the  city  spires : 
And  there  in  the  dusk  by  the  walls, 
With  the  gray  mist  marking  its  course 
Through  the  silent  flowery  land, 

On,  to  the  plains,  to  the  sea. 
Floats  the  Imperial  Stream. 

Well  I  know  what  they  feel. 
They  gaze,  and  the  evening  wind 
Plays  on  their  faces  :  they  gaze ; 
Airs  from  the  Eden  of  Youth 
Awake  and  stir  in  their  soul : 
The  Past  returns  ;  they  feel 
What  they  are,  alas !  what  they  were. 
They,  not  Nature,  are  chang'd. 
Well  I  know  what  they  feel. 

Hush!  for  tears 
Begin  to  steal  to  their  eyes. 
Hush  !  for  fruit 
Grows  from  such  sorrow  as  theirs. 


232  THE    YOUTH    OF    MAN. 

And  they  remember 
AVith  piercing  untold  anguish 
The  proud  boasting  of  their  youth. 

And  they  feel  how  Nature  was  fair. 
And  the  mists  of  delusion, 
And  the  scales  of  habit, 
Fall  away  from  their  eyes. 
And  they  see,  for  a  moment. 
Stretching  out,  like  the  Desert 
In  its  weary,  unprofitable  length. 
Their  faded,  ignoble  lives. 

While  the  locks  are  yet  brown  on  thy  head. 
While  the  soul  still  looks  through  thine  eyes, 
While  the  heart  still  pours 
The  mantling  blood  to  thy  cheek, 

Sink,  O  Youth,  in  thy  soul ! 
Yearn  to  the  greatness  of  Nature  ! 
Eally  the  good  in  the  depths  of  thyself! 


A   SUMMER  NIGHT 


In  the  deserted  moon-blanch' d  street 
How  lonely  rings  the  echo  of  my  feet ! 
Those  windows,  which  I  gaze  at,  frown, 
Silent  and  white,  unopening  down. 
Repellent  as  the  world  :  —  but  see  ! 
A  break  between  the  housetops  shows 
The  moon,  and,  lost  behind  her,  fading  dim 
Into  the  dewy  dark  obscurity 
Down  at  the  far  horizon's  rim. 

Doth  a  whole  tract  of  heaven  disclose. 

And  to  my  mind  the  thought 
Is  on  a  sudden  brought 
Of  a  past  night,  and  a  far  different  scene. 
Headlands  stood  out  into  the  moon-lit  deep 
As  clearly  as  at  noon  ; 
The  spring-tide's  brimming  flow 
Heav'd  dazzingly  between  ; 
Houses  with  long  white  sweep 
Girdled  the  glistening  bay  : 


334  A    SUMMER    NIGHT. 

Behind,  through  the  soft  air, 

The  blue  haze-cradled  mountains  spread  away. 

That  night  was  far  more  fair  ; 
But  the  same  restless  pacings  to  and  fro. 
And  the  same  vainly-throbbing  heart  was  there, 
And  the  same  bright  calm  moon. 

And  the  calm  moonlight  seems  to  say  — 
Hast  thou  then  still  the  old  unquiet  breast 
That  neither  deadens  into  rest, 
Nor  ever  feels  the  fiery  glow 
That  whirls  the  spirit  from  itself  away. 
But  fluctuates  to  and  fro. 
Never  ly  passion  quite  possessed, 
And  never  quite  lenumVd  ly  the  world's  sway  7 
And  I,  I  know  not  if  to  pray 
Still  to  be  what  I  am,  or  yield,  and  be 
Like  all  the  other  men  I  see. 

For  most  men  in  a  brazen  prison  live, 
Where  in  the  sun's  hot  eye, 
With  heads  bent  o'er  their  toil  they  languidly 
Their  lives  to  some  unjneaning  taskwork  give, 
Dreaming  of  nought  beyond  their  prison  wall. 
And  as,  year  after  year. 
Fresh  products  of  their  barren  labor  fall 
From  their  tired  hands,  and  rest 
Never  yet  comes  more  near, 
Gloom  settles  slowly  down  over  their  breast. 


A   SUMMER    NIGHT.  335 

And  while  tliey  try  to  stem 

The  waves  of  mournful  thought  by  which  they  are  prest, 

Death  in  their  prison  reaches  them 

Unfreed,  having  seen  nothing,  still  unblest. 

And  the  rest,  a  few, 
Escape  their  prison,  and  depart 
On  the  wide  Ocean  of  Life  anew. 
There  the  freed  prisoner,  where'er  his  heart 
Listeth,  will  sail ; 

Nor  does  he  know  how  there  prevail, 
Despotic  on  life's  sea. 
Trade-winds  that  cross  it  from  eternity. 

Awhile  he  holds  some  false  way,  undebarr'd 
By  thwarting  signs,  and  braves 
The  freshening  winds  and  blackening  waves. 
And  then  the  tempest  strikes  him,  and  between 
The  lightning  bursts  is  seen 
Only  a  driving  wreck. 

And  the  pale  Master  on  his  spar-strewn  deck 
With  anguish' d  face  and  flying  hair 
Grasping  the  rudder  hard. 

Still  bent  to  make  some  port  he  knows  not  where, 
Still  standing  for  some  false  impossible  shore. 

And  sterner  comes  the  roar 
Of  sea  and  wind,  and  through  the  deepening  gloom 
Fainter  and  fainter  wreck  and  helmsman  loom, 
And  he  too  disappears,  and  comes  no  more. 


336  A    SUMMER    NIGHT. 

Is  there  no  life,  but  these  alone  ? 
Madman  or  slave,  must  man  be  one  ? 

Plainness  and  clearness  without  shadow  of  stain ! 
Clearness  divine  ! 

Ye  Heavens,  whose  pure  dark  regions  have  no  sign 
Of  langour,  though  so  calm,  and  though  so  great. 
Are  yet  untroubled  and  unpassionate  : 
Who  though  so  noble  share  in  the  world's  toil, 
And  though  so  task'd  keep  free  from  dust  and  soil : 
I  will  not  say  that  your  mild  deeps  retain 
A  tinge,  it  may  be,  of  their  silent  pain 
Who  have  long'd  deeply  once,  and  long'd  in  vain  ; 
But  I  will  rather  say  that  you  remain 
A  world  above  man's  head,  to  let  him  see 
How  boundless  might  his  soul's  horizons  be. 
How  vast,  yet  of  what  clear  transparency. 
How  it  were  good  to  sink  there,  and  breathe  free. 
How  fair  a  lot  to  fill 
Is  left  to  each  man  still. 


THE     END. 


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